
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


'IQr)?: 



\ 


% 


' % 





j : 




0 







V, . , 




■» t 




/ 


% 


/ 

/ 


/ 





1 





% 


.( 










+' 



? 


■ V ■ v 






; A 







I 


« 

\ 


V 


\ 


> 




N 


i 

I 

r - 




SiK. 


% 


/ 









;»I7 ^ 






N 












t 














SHIFTLESS FELLOW.” 

Page i.. 



“HIS FATHER WAS A LAZY, 




THE OLD TAVERN 

AND OTHER STORIES. 


BY 

MARY DWINELL CHELLIS, 

I* 

AUTHOR OF “the BREWERY AT TAYLORVILLE “ THE BREWER’s FORTUNE 
“ ALL FOR MONEY “ ; “ TEN CENTS ’’ ; “ WEALTH AND WINE ” ; “ OUR HOMES ” ; 
“the TEMPERANCE DOCTOR”; “aUNT DINAH’s PLEDGE “ AT LION’S 

mouth”; “out of the fire”; “from father to son”; 
“bread AND beer”; “fife and drum”; “drink- 
ing JACK,” etc. 




NEW YORK; 

The National Temperance Society and Publication House, 


08 READS STREET. 




Copyright, 1886, by 

The National Temperance Society and Publication House. 


EDWARD o. Jenkins’ sons, 
Printers and Stereotypers^ 
ao North William St., New York, 


THE OLD TAVERN. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE BARE-FOOTED BOY. 

A BOY Stood digging his toes into the sand, wiping 
the tears from his eyes, and wondering of the future. 
His father had been buried the previous day, and that 
morning his mother had told him he must look out for 
his own dinner and supper, as she could not provide 
them. 

“ His father was a lazy, shiftless fellow, drinking just 
enough to keep himself poor as poverty. It don’t seem 
as though his family were any better off for having him 
’round ; but they kept off the town, and that is more 
than they will do now. The children will have to be 
put out, and Fm willing to do my part toward provid- 
ing for them by taking the oldest boy. I guess I can 
make him pay for his board and clothes. Fm on my 
'way now to see the selectmen about it. They have a 
meeting at Patten’s to-day, and I want some help 
through haying.” 

Abner Hanson, the bare -footed boy, clasped his 
hands tightly, and listened as for his life, while Mr. 
Grimshaw, from whom he was concealed by a clump of 
alders, thus talked of his father and himself. He was 

( 5 ) 


o 


The Old Tavern. 


“ the oldest boy whose services were to be secured, 
and for a moment he wished he could die and so be 
out of all trouble. The next moment, however, he real- 
ized that something must be done to avert the fate which 
threatened him. 

Mr. Patten lived two miles away by the road, but 
there was a short cut through the woods and across the 
brook, on a fallen tree, and he could easil^ outrun Mr. 
Grimshaw*s old horse. He had no time for delibera- 
tion ; but, as he ran, he resolved to take his fortune 
into his own hands and do the best of which he was 
capable. 

“ Where are the selectmen } he asked, when he 
reached Mr. Patten’s house ; and, upon being told, he 
swung himself through an open window and stood be- 
fore them, as he said hoarsely : Don’t send me to Mr. 
Grimshaw’s. I can take care of myself and more, too. 
Try me and see. He is coming. I heard him say so ; 
and ” 

The sentence was left unfinished. The boy had 
fallen to the floor in a dead faint. When restored to 
consciousness, although unable to rise from the lounge 
on which he had been placed, he whispered : 

“ Mr. Grimshaw is coming ; 1 hear his wagon rattle. 
Don’t send me to live with him. I can take care of 
myself.” 

“ Of course you can take care of yourself,” replied 
Mr. Patten assuringly. “ Mr. Grimshaw has nothing to 
do about it ; so just lie still and rest. - By and by you 
and I will have a talk, and make up our minds what is 
best for you to do.” 

Mr. Grimshaw made known his errand, only to be 


7 


The Bare-Footed Boy, 

lold that the town had no authority to dispose of the 
boy in question, who was quite able to provide for him- 
self, and would doubtless assist his mother in caring for 
the younger children. 

Abner Hanson heard this estimate of his character ; 
and in the hours he was resting, with closed eyes, new 
hopes and ambitions awoke within him. When at last 
he arose to go, Mrs. Patten said to him kindly : 

‘‘ Stay and have dinner with us.” 

“ I shall be glad to, if I can earn it ; but I never mean 
to take another cent's worth that I don't earn,” he re- 
plied. ‘‘ I am going to earn my own living, and I am 
ready to begin this minute.” 

Then this minute it is, Abner. I want some wood 
split up fine, and I should like it as soon as I can 
have it.” 

The boy did not stop to think how he hated splitting 
wood, or how he complained when his mother asked 
him to do it ; but, setting to work with a will, he had 
some ready for the stove in the shortest possible time. 

''He earned his dinner, after which he ate it with great relish. 

Have you a mind to earn your supper? ” then asked 
Mrs. Patten ; and being answered in the affirmative, 
Abner Hanson was sent into the garden to pull weeds. 

He had never known so long an afternoon, and many 
times he was tempted to throw down his trowel and run, 
but he persevered until called to such a supper as he 
had seldom eaten. 

“ How much do you think you have earned this after- 
noon ? ” asked Mr. Patten, who had carefully inspected 
his work, and could guess something of the effort it had 
cost him. 


8 The Old Tavern. 

I don't know, sir, but I hope I paid for my supper,” 
replied the boy. 

• ‘‘You did, and more too. There is a basket and a 
pail on the kitchen table you can take home to your 
mother, and you can tell her you have done nobly to- 
day. What are you going to do to-morrow 1 Remem- 
ber, my boy, there is always to-morrow to be consid- 
ered." 

“Yes, sir ; and I want to work to-morrow." 

“ Then come here, if nothing better offers. I have 
all the help I really need, but I can keep you busy at 
something." 

Mrs. Hanson hardly cared or thought where her boy 
spent the day, so long as he made no demands upon 
her. Indeed, she never cared much for anything be- 
yond the immediate wants of the hour. While her hus- 
band had failed to provide suitably for his family, she 
had also failed to make the most of what he had pro- 
vided. 

“ So you've come back," she said in an indifferent 
tone, as she heard Abner’s footsteps. 

“Yes, mother, and brought you something, too," he 
replied. “ Come and see. Here are meat and potatoes 
and flour and milk, and I earned them, Mr. Patten said 
I did. I had my dinner and supper besides, and these 
are for you and the children.” 

“ Who’d have thought it ! I”m most sorry, now, for 
what I told Mr. Grimshaw. He came here and said 
he’d give you your board and a suit of clothes if you'd 
work for him through haying, and I told him you’d go." 

“I sha'n't do it, mother, if you did tell him so. You 
told me yesterday morning I must look out for myself, 


The Bare-Footed Boy. g 

and I’m going to. I’ll help you, too ; but I won’t work 
for Mr. Grimshaw.” 

Well, well, Abner, do as you are a-mind to. You 
always did, and I suppose you always will. But I gave 
my word, and I don’t know what he’ll say.” 

‘‘You gave your word to me first, mother.” 

“ I suppose I did ; but I didn’t know how you’d 
take it.” 

“ I took it just as you said, and I’m going to live up 
to it. I’ll talk to Mr. Patten about it the first thing to- 
morrow morning. I am so tired, I must go straight to 
bed, and be sure you call me as soon as it is light enough 
to see.” 

If the afternoon had been long, the night was all too 
short for the tired boy, who needed to be reminded 
that he was going to Mr. Patten’s before he could fairly 
rouse himself from sleep. 

For the second time Mr. Grimshaw found his plans 
set aside ; and after threatening both mother and son 
with a suit for breach of contract, he went his way 


CHAPTER II. 


THE sheriff’s SALE. 

For the third time in a score of years, the old tavern 
on the hill was advertised to be sold at auction. A 
hundred acres of the best land in town belonged to the 
estate of which it was a part ; and yet many prophesied 
that it would sell for a merely nominal sum. Strange 
scenes had been enacted in the large, low rooms, until 
people came to regard the house as sure to bring mis- 
fortune to its owner. 

Notwithstanding this, however, there was a large at- 
tendance on the day of the sale. Men estimated the 
cost of erecting new buildings, and it was evident that 
they would bid cautiously. But at length a stranger 
appeared among them, whose whole appearance indi- 
cated that he was there with a purpose ; and it was not 
long before the property was declared sold to Samuel 
Redfield. 

‘‘You’ll be likely to tear down the house and build to 
suit yourself, won’t you.?” said an old man, looking 
sharply at the purchaser. 

“ The house suits me as it is,” was replied. “ I al- 
ways thought it pleasant and convenient.” 

“ Then you have seen it before,” continued the first 
speaker. - 

“ Yes, sir ; I saw a good deal of it when I was a boy/* 

(lO) 


The Sheriff's Sale. 1 1 

‘‘Be you the Sam Redfield that was bound out ta 
old Martin to pay a liquor bill ? ” 

“ I am, sir/* 

“You didn’t stay here but about a year. Got tired 
of hard work and hard fare, didn’t you ? ” 

“Yes, sir, I did ; and I thought I’d take matters into 
my own hands.” 

“You’ve made money since then ? ” 

“ I’ve made enough to pay cash down for all I have 
bought to-day.” 

“Well, I am glad of it. Going to keep tavern.? ” 

“ No, sir ; I am going to bring my wife and children 
here, and make this our home, while I see what I can 
do at farming.” 

“ Is your mother living .? ” asked the old man, whose 
curiosity seemed to increase with the information he 
obtained. 

“ I am the last of the family,” said Mr. Redfield. 
And here the colloquy was interrupted. 

Before night it was known throughout the town that 
Sam Redfield had bought the old tavern and was com- 
ing there to live. This recalled the history of his boy- 
hood, and furnished a topic for general conversation. 

Thirty-five years before, when the hard-hearted man 
to whom he was bound called him to his morning’s 
work he had failed to appear, and since then nothing 
had been heard of him in the vicinity. 

“ He had a hard time when he was a boy, but he 
looks as though he had come out all right,” remarked 
Mr. Patten. “Anyway he has paid for what he bought, 
and we are going to have him for a neighbor.” 

“Was he a real poor boy, poor as I am.?” asked 


12 


The Old Tavern. 


Abner Hanson, who was greatly interested in all he had 
heard of this man. 

‘‘ He was poorer than you ever thought of being,*' 
replied Mr. Patten. “ Why, he was as bad as sold by 
his father to pay an old liquor bill, and he was shame- 
fully abused every day he lived with Simon Martin. I 
don't suppose he got half enough to eat, unless he stole 
it, and he wasn't decently clothed any time of year. In 
summer, that didn't make so much difference, but in 
winter he must have suffered with cold. All that hap- 
pened when I was young, and didn't think much about 
such things. But it wouldn't be allowed now. ‘ Old 
Martin,' as everybody called the tavern-keeper, was 
thought to be rich, and he managed about as he 
pleased. There were strange stories told of his boys ; 
and after he went away from here, folks said he was 
poor as the poorest. He deserved to be poor, if ever 
any man did." 

“Was he a drunkard } " asked Abner. 

“ A perfect sot, the last of the time he was here ; and 
his boys followed his example. He was one of the 
worst drunkards that ever lived in town, and I have 
Jieard my father say he was the smartest boy in the 
center district school, though he never seemed to have 
any feeling for anybody but himself. He and Zeke 
Redfield were great cronies, but in the end he got Zeke 
so much in his power he did the thinking for both. 
Sam was more independent and started out on his own 
hook to come back when he pleased." 

“ I wish I could work for this Mr. Redfield," said the 
boy, whose admiration for the man constantly increased. 
“ I like to stay here, but you told me you didn't need 


The Sheriff's Sale. 13 

me, only you keep me busy, so I can earn some- 
thing/’ 

“ Perhaps you could get a chance with him if you 
should apply for it ; and now is the best time to ask 
him. I heard him say he should have the grounds 
cleared up and put in order as soon as possible. Some- 
body else may be before you in looking for a job, unless 
you speak quick. I advise you to see him before you 
go home to-night.” 

Abner Hanson stayed to hear no more ; and while 
the west windows of the old tavern glowed in the rays 
of the setting sun, Mr. Redfield paused in his walk to 
and fro on the piazza to listen to the request of a bare- 
headed, bare-footed boy who wished for a chance to 
work and earn a living. 

“ What can you do ” asked the gentleman. 

“ I don’t know, sir, because I never tried many 
things,” replied the boy, adding frankly : I’ve been 
lazy and shiftless, but now I am going to do just as well 
as I can.” 

“ What made such a change in your habits } ” 

“I had to change. Father died, and mother said I 
must look out for myself. Father wasn’t much good, 
and perhaps, if he had lived, I should have been like 
him. Now I mean to be just as different as I can be. 
He drank liquor, but I won’t taste a drop if I’m killed 
for it.” 

‘‘A good resolution, my boy. Stick to it, and ninety 
chances out of a hundred you’ll get ahead in the world.” 

“Was that the way you got ahead, sir.? ” 

“ That was one thing that helped me, though it took 
a good deal of hard work besides.” 


H 


The Old Tavern. 


“I’m willing to work hard, and I wanted to work fof 
you, because folks say you used to be a poor boy.” 

“ Come here to-morrow morning and I will find you 
something to do. We will see how we can get along 
together for a week. But stay ; what wages do you 
expect.? You will have to board yourself. I intend to 
sleep in my house to-night, and I shall make my head- 
quarters here, but I can not undertake to provide for 
two. I am a pretty good cook on a small scale, but 
might make a failure if I attempted too much. So you 
must look out for your own board.” 

“Yes, sir, I can. Mother cooks good things now. 1 
can have breakfast and supper at home, and bring my 
dinner with me. What time shall I come in the morn- 
ing .? ” 

“ Come early.” 

“ And please, sir, what would you call early .? ” 

“When the birds begin to sing,” replied Mr. Redfield 
with a smile. “ I must make a long day to-morrow.” 

“Yes, sir ; I will help you all I can.” 

“ Then good evening. I shall expect you.” 

The next morning he found the boy curled up in the 
warmest corner of the piazza, with an old woolen shawl 
around him, fast asleep. 

“I didn’t mean to oversleep,” said Abner, rubbing 
his eyes, and too much confused to know where he 
was. 

“ I didn’t mean you should catch me napping, but 
you did,” said the gentleman. “You came earlier than 
I expected.” 

“ The birds were just beginning to sing when I got 
here. Mother made me take this shawl, so I could 


The Sheriff's Sale. 15 

keep warm. I wanted to be in season. Please^ sir 
what shall I do first? 

Upon being told, Abner Hanson began work for Mr 
Redfield, so happy in his good fortune that he half 
fancied he could never again be tired. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE SCARRED FACE. 

It had been a dark, rainy day, and the lowering 
clouds threatened a darker night. Mr. Redfield had 
gone for his family, and there was no one about the 
house except Abner Hanson, who was preparing to go 
home, when he thought he saw some one moving among 
the shrubbery at the foot of the garden. 

Who could it be ? 

He hastened to assure himself if he had been mis- 
taken, and there, evidently attempting concealment, was 
the most wretched-looking object he had ever seen. An 
old man, with grizzly beard and long, matted hair glared 
at him with almost the ferocity of a wild beast. 

“ What you want here 1 ” he growled, rather than 
spoke. What you want down here. A man has a 
right to stay out-doors in this part of the country, hain't 
he.?’^ 

I suppose so ; but it aint very comfortable out- 
doors such a day as this. You don’t calculate to stay 
here all night, do you ? ” said Abner, with some hesita- 
tion. 

“ That aint anybody’s business but mine,” responded 
the man, angrily.” You can go right away and take 
care of yourself. I don’t want any of your help.” 

(i6) 


The Scarred Face, 17 

‘‘But you ought to go somewhere and get dry. You 
must be wet to your skin.'* 

“I calculate to be wet ; I never want to be dry. You 
better be looking out for your own skin. You needn’t 
slay here another minute. I know what I’m about. I 
fell down, a ways back,” remarked the man, glancing at 
his mud-stained garments. “ I aint more than half 
drunk, so you needn’t stand there looking at me.” 

Having no excuse for remaining longer, and being 
again summarily dismissed, Abner Hanson started for 
home, thinking, as he went, of this strange interview. 
His mother had seen too many strolling vagabonds to 
attach much importance to the presence of the man in 
the garden ; but when, a few days later, Mr. Redfield 
returned, and the story was again told, there was a more 
interested listener. 

“ Had the man a scar on his face ? ” this gentleman 
asked quickly. 

“ Yes, sir ; it looked as though there had been a great 
gash across his left cheek. He kept his hat pulled down 
*on that side ; but it got caught in the bushes, so it came 
off, and I saw his face.” 

“ And you say you never saw him or heard of him 
after that ? ” 

“ No, sir. I came over as soon as there was any light 
the next morning, but he was gone. There were tracks 
up to the back piazza, but I couldn’t tell where they 
went to afterwards.” 

“ Perhaps the man slept on the piazza that night ? ” 

“It didn’t look so, sir; but perhaps he did,” said 
Abner ; and the conversation was closed. 

Later, Mr. Redfield asked him if he had opened % 
2 


i8 


The Old Tavern. 


window or been in the house while left alone on the 
premises. 

No, sir,'* answered the boy promptly. “ I just 
worked around as you told me. I hadn't any business 
to open a window." 

“I believe you, Abner," responded the gentleman, 
and walked away without further comment. 

Many people wondered at this confidence. Mr. Grim- 
sliaw found occasion to remark that there was every 
opportunity for a boy to do a large amount of small 
stealing. 

Notwithstanding all this, however, Abner Hanson 
gained in the respect and esteem of his employer. He 
came in the morning, performed his allotted tasks faith- 
fully, and returned home in the evening, having his 
board, in addition to his wages, after the family arrived. 

With one member of the family, his uniform kindness 
and consideration soon made him a great favorite. Paul 
Redfield, the only son, had been so injured by a fall 
' that he could not walk ; and nothing so delighted him 
as to be drawn about the grounds by ‘‘ good Abner," 
who moved so carefully, and took him to the very nicest 
places. 

“When will you have a birthday.^" he asked one 
afternoon, as he was resting in the shade, while Abner 
was at work not far away. 

“Next week, Wednesday," was replied. “I shall be 
thirteen years old then." 

“ Why, I shall have a birthday then," exclaimed Paul. 
“1 shall be six years old, and it is two whole years 
since I got hurt. The doctor said if I came into the 
country I should be getting stronger all the time, and I 


The Scarred Face. 


19 


do. Sometimes it seems as though I could almost step 
1 wish I could. I want to go to school. Don't you " 

“ I don't know. I never cared much about school, 
and I couldn't go now, if I wanted to. I must work 
every day, so as to take care of myself and help mother." 

‘‘ Perhaps you are such a good scholar, you don't need 
to go, but I can only read and count. 1 can't do half 
as much as Lucy can, and she is only eight years old. 
Can you add figures, Abner.?" 

“ Some ; but I never went to school much, and when 
I did go, I didn't study as I ought to." 

“ Can you read real well .? " continued Paul. 

No, I can't," answered the boy, who, perhaps for 
the first time, was ashamed of his ignorance. 

Then I guess you and I better read together some- 
times. I have got some papers with real nice pictures 
and stories, and I know you would like them." 

‘‘But, you know, I must work. Your father pays me 
for working, and when I get through I must go home." 

“What do you do Sundays.?" 

Not much; only eat and sleep. Mr. Patten says I 
ought to go to meeting and Sunday-school ; but my 
clothes aint fit, and, besides, I should be ashamed not 
to know any more. They study the Bible in Sunday- 
school, and I never studied it any. I wish I was more 
like other boys." 

“ So do I wish I was, and I hope I shall be sometime, 
but father says I must do the best I can just as I am, so 
I try. You come over here next Sunday afternoon, and 
we'll sit out here, if it is pleasant, and read the Bible 
together. Perhaps I can tell you something about it 
you don't know. You can wear the same clothes you 


20 


The Old Tavern, 


do every day, and we will make believe we are having 
a Sunday-school/’ 

Again Abner Hanson took a step upwards, as he real- 
ized that there was a world far removed from that in 
which he had lived ; and when allowed to carry some 
papers home, he thought himself rich indeed. 

“There’s something besides working with two hands 
and just earning a living,” he said half aloud. “I’ll 
find out what it is, too,” he added more emphatically. 

That evening he surprised his mother by calling for 
the Bible, and sitting up an hour later than usual puz- 
zling over hard words and strange truths. 

“ I know now what makes the difference between 
folks,” he remarked as he was about to retire. “ Paul 
Redfield says we ought to live as the Bible tells us to. 
Some folks do, and some folks don’t, and that makes the 
difference. Didn’t you always know that, mother? ” 

“ I suppose I did,” answered the woman, who 'bund 
it difficult to realize that the boy before her Wc ^ truly 
her son. 

He was impatient for Sunday ; and when it i ;rived, 
wished the morning away that he might go to M , Red- 
field’s to read with Paul, who had been encour; ged by 
his parents to divide his store of books and pap( rs with 
Abner. The little girls, too, thought of the pleas int boy 
who was always ready to help them, and wished to help 
him in return. 

He was a poor reader, but Paul had patience his 
blunders and his ignorance, so that he really made ‘'ome 
progress in knowledge. 

“ Oh, dear ! there is ever so much to be donw. and 
only one head and one pair of hands to do it all,” he 


The Scarred Face. 


21 


said, when it was time for him to go home. I find out 
new things I want to do all the time.*’ 

“And 1 hope you will keep on finding them,** re- 
sponded Mr. Redfield, who had come out to see how 
the reading progressed. “Times are pretty hard when 
there is nothing new to be expected. You have made a 
good start in the world, for a poor boy, Abner. All you 
liave to do now is to keep on working steadily, and re- 
membering that the dear Lord cares for you. Will you 
remember that, my boy ** 

“ Yes, sir. Though I never knew much about it until 
Paul told me.** 

“ I hope you will know more about it, and feel it, too. 
I didn’t learn that blessed truth until I was several years 
older than you are. I had a harder life than you know 
anything about, yet through it all I had cause for thank- 
fulness. I had good health, and after I went from here 
I was paid enough for my work to meet my expenses, 
although sometimes I was obliged to limit my expenses 
to a very small amount.** 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE CURSE. 

Mr. Faulkner, a gentleman who had been living 
West for several years, was visiting in his native town 
and inquired concerning the old tavern on the hill. 

It is owned by one who lived in the house between 
thirty and forty years ago,” was replied to his question. 

It can not be one of the Martins,” said Mr. Faulkner. 
“The old man died long ago, and his boys must be too 
poor and miserable, if they are alive, to own property 
anywhere. I haven’t heard a word of them for twenty 
years, but there was a curse on the house, and especially 
on the Martin family.” 

“ That is what everybody says,” responded the man 
who had watched the fortunes of this house for half a 
century. “ Every owner of the tavern has come to pov 
erty and ruin. When Molly Briggs went there after her 
boy, and old Martin told her it was none of her busi- 
ness how much liquor he sold, she tried to reason with 
him. But when he swore he would sell her boy liquor 
if he had to do it over the mouth of hell, she cursed him 
until he trembled with fear. He kept his word, how- 
ever, and Austen Briggs died a drunkard when he was 
less than thirty years old.” 

“ No wonder the house is cursed. The wonder to me 
is that any one could be found to purchase it.” 

“It is a wonder, but the present owner came back 
( 22 ; 


The Curse. 


23 


after having been away thirty-five years, and bought the 
whole estate, even to the mountain pastures. You re- 
member that Zeke Redfield bound his boy Sam to old 
Martin, to pay a liquor bill.” 

‘‘I do remember it, and I remember, too, that every- 
body was glad when he ran away. It can’t be that he 
has bought the old tavern.” 

“ He has bought it, and settled down there. The 
house has been thoroughly cleaned, painted and papered 
from garret to cellar, but with the exception of the bar- 
room, Mr. Redfield has made no other changes. He 
bought it cheap and paid cash down. There were not 
many who cared to bid against him when it went above 
what the land was worth, and for my part I am glad to 
have him back here. He is a good citizen, a Christian, 
and a thorough-going temperance man.” 

‘‘ He ought to be a temperance man. He saw enough 
liquor drinking when he was a boy, to make him hate it. 
I used to pity him. Old Martin was a hard master, and 
people who knew more about it than I did said that 
when the old man’s sons were drunk they abused him 
worse than their father.” 

“There is no doubt of that. There were strange 
things done in that old tavern. More than one farm 
was mortgaged, when the owner had been drinking too 
freely and then sat down to a game of cards. More 
than one poor woman lost her home in a way she 
couldn’t understand, and men found themselves in old 
Martin’s power without knowing exactly how they came 
there. Molly Briggs was not alone in cursing house and 
landlord, and when he was sold out under the hammer, 
nobody pitied him.” 


24 


The Old Tavern. 


‘‘ What became of his money ? ” 

went for his boys. They were the worst kind ol 
spendthrifts. They got into more scrapes than many 
people knew, and their father paid some heavy bills to 
prevent them from being shut up. Bill was the worst 
one, but so far as I know he has never been in prison. 
After their father became poor, the rest of them got 
their deserts behind the bars ; and he would, if there 
hadn’t been a woman to help him along. It is the most 
astonishing thing in the world, Mr. Faulkner, that such 
men often find women who cling to them through every- 
thing.” 

It is astonishing, Mr. Barker, and the worst feature 
of it all is, that children are born to them who are almost 
sure to inherit the father’s depraved appetites. You say 
Bill Martin has a wife. Has he children.?” 

“You misunderstood me, Mr. Faulkner. I did not 
say he has a wife ; for no one knows that he is married. 
We only know there is a woman living in the north part 
of the town who is ready to lay down her life for him. 
She is a good woman, too, in her way ; the best nurse 
and the kindest neighbor anywhere ’round. If anybody 
is dangerously * sick, the doctor always wants Eunice 
Poore to carry out his prescriptions ; and if anybody is 
in trouble, she is ready with sympathy and help. She 
lives alone in a retired spot, and is never known to go 
from home except on business or to do somebody a 
kindness.” 

“ Has she money .? ” 

“ She earns a good deal, but she spends very little on 
herself. One winter she was away several weeks, and 
when she came back the stage driver thought she paid 


The Curse, 


25 


him her last cent. She looked, too, as though she had 
exhausted her last strength. When she keeps closer 
than usual, the neighbors imagine Bill Martin is there, 
although no one ever sees him.” 

‘‘ Has she children ? ” 

“ Nobody here knows that she has, but I am sure if 
she had children, she would manage in some way to 
keep them under good influences. She believes in re- 
ligion and in the strictest kind of temperance. She 
never misses an opportunity to speak against liquor- 
drinking ; and as for the old tavern, it is the only place 
where she has refused to go where there was sickness.” 

“ Is she a native of the town } ” 

“No, sir ; she came here not long after you left and 
bought the place she lives on, taking the deed in her 
own name. Though people thought Bill Martin furnished 
the money to pay for it.” 

“So you have a romance in this quiet old town, Mr. 
Barker } ” 

“ More of a tragedy than a romance, Mr. Faulkner, 
and the worst may be to come. You remember about 
the peddler who was found dead in the snow, thirty-six 
years ago come next winter 1 ” 

“ I do remember it. There must have been foul play 
somewhere. No sane man would leave a comfortable 
shelter, such a night as that was, unless he was driven to 
it.” 

“It aint reasonable to suppose he would, but nobody 
could prove anything, and to this day no trace has been 
found of the money or papers his wife said he carried in 
a belt under his clothing. Within a few years a large 
reward has been offered for the papers. If they could 


26 


The Old Tavern. 


be found the peddler’s heirs would come in for a fortune 
There is a mystery about the whole affair, but I believe 
Bill Martin could clear up part of it.” 

“ He will be likely to keep his own counsel, unless 
there is a great deal to be gained by making a clean 
breast of it. Sam Redfield was living with Martin at 
the time of the peddler’s death. What does he say 
about it } ” 

‘‘ I don’t know that any one has mentioned it to him 
since he came back ; but I remember distinctly that he 
was at his father’s then. Martin sent him over there in 
the morning just as the storm began, and told him not 
to come back until the next day in the afternoon.” 

That looked suspicious.” 

It did, a little ; although Sam’s mother was sick and 
needed him.” 

“I wonder he wanted to come back here to live. I 
should think he would have preferred almost any other 
place.” 

It seems he did not. He says when he decided to 
move into the country, he thought of this place the very 
first thing ; and when he found the old tavern was for 
sale, he determined to buy it.” 

And he is not afraid of the curse } ” 

‘‘No, sir; why should he be.^ It was liquor that 
cursed the house, and not a drop will ever be seen there 
as long as he occupies it. He does not talk much of 
what he intends to do, but everybody who sees him un- 
derstands that he has a mind of his own. He is going 
to farming, and he has some good stock in his barns; 
some of the best there is in town. It will pay you to 
give him a call. He don’t say much about old times, 


The Curse, 


27 

but he is glad to see anybody who remembers him. The 
town has improved since you left it, Mr. Faulkner.** 
“Yes, sir; it has. The farms look better, and the 
farmers are living in better houses. I don*t believe 
there are as many drunkards in town as there were then.** 
“ Not nearly so many, Mr. Faulkner. The old ones 
have died off, and since the old tavern got such a bad 
name, the young men have kept away from it more than 
they used to. If there had never been a tavern here, 
we should be a good deal richer in men as well as money. 
Liquor has been the curse of all our farming towns, and 
the old-fashioned taverns did a big business in making 
drunkards.*’ 


CHAPTER V. 


THE STRANGE NURSE. 

“If you have a mind to go to school this winter, you 
can work enough to pay for your board ; and if you do 
more than that, I will pay you every cent which is your 
due,** said Mr. Redfield to Abner Hanson, as the days 
grew shorter and colder. 

“ Thank you, sir. I wish I could go to school, but 
mother needs all I can earn,** answered the boy. “ I 
am studying a little evenings, and must do the best I 
can without school. I could read only a little when 
Paul began with me, and now mother says I read very 
well. I am trying arithmetic, too. My sister Hattie 
goes to school, and she tells me about the lessons. That 
is why I would rather go home nights, if you are willing.** 
“ I am perfectly willing ; only it is pretty hard for you 
to start so early these frosty mornings.** 

“ I can do it, Mr. Redfield. It is better for the chil- 
dren to have me at home evenings. I want them to come 
up different from what I did.** 

“ That is a good thought, Abner. Look out for your 
brothers and sisters.** 

“I mean to, sir; and they are trying to do as well 
as they can. They are always so glad to see me 
evenings, I forget how tired I am. Mother calls me her 
good boy. So you see it helps all round for me to go 
(28) 


The Strange Nurse, 29 

home, and it does me good to think I can be such a 
helper/’ 

‘You are a helper here, too, Abner. Paul would 
hardly know how to get through a day without you. I 
expect you will be a. friend to him as long as you live. 
I don’t know another boy I would trust him with as I 
do with you. He has grown stronger since we came 
here, and another summer I expect he will begin to 
walk again. If he can only take the first step, all will 
come right in time.” 

Abner Hanson had never, in all his life, received a 
Christmas present; but this Christmas eve so many 
bundles and boxes and baskets were left at his moth- 
er’s, each directed to some member of the family, that 
his little sister said “ Santa Claus must have emptied 
his sleigh at their door.” She didn’t know that, for 
weeks, the children in the old tavern had been planning 
a surprise for them ; but Abner guessed at once to whom 
they were indebted. 

“ Were the things just exactly what you wanted } ” 
asked Paul, the next day, when he attempted to express 
his gratitude. 

Just exactly,” was replied. ‘‘Why, I felt so rich, I 
didn’t want to go to sleep at all last night, and mother 
was so glad she cried. Since she began to read the 
Bible, same as your father and mother do, she is like a 
new mother. I am glad your father came here to live 
and let me work for him. I hope I can do something 
real hard for him sometime, to show him how much I 
thank him for being so good to me. And to think that 
once he was poorer than I ever was ! I mean to be just 
as near like him, when I grow up, as I can.” 


30 


The Old Tavern. 


Christmas was a happy day for Abner Hanson, but 
New Year’s was still happier. Mrs. Hanson and hei 
family were invited to dine at Mr. Redfield’s, and, while 
there, they were made to feel so entirely at home, they 
half forgot the strangeness of their position. 

Paul was in jubilant spirits — the very life of the com- 
pany ; making friends with all, and winning all hearts 
not already his. The next day he complained of being 
tired ; the next, his head ached ; and the next, he was 
so ill that Dr. Farrar was summoned, who pronounced 
him in the first stages of brain fever. 

At the same time, the girl in the kitchen was obliged 
to go home because of her mother’s illness, thus leaving 
Mrs. Redfield without help. 

‘‘ Eunice Poore is just the woman you need, and fortu- 
nately she is at home,” said Dr. Farrar, when he under- 
stood the situation. 

“ It seems to me I would rather have any one else in 
my house,” responded Mr. Redfield. “ Her connection 
with Bill Martin makes her particularly obnoxious to 
me. You probably do not understand why this should 
be ; but I have good reason to avoid anything which 
may possibly bring me into the most distant relation 
with the Martin family.” 

I know something of your early life, Mr. Redfield, 
and do not wonder that you have such feelings ; but, 
for all that, I should feel surer of your boy’s recovery 
if Eunice Poore was in the house. She is a poor, un- 
fortunate woman ; yet there never was one more faithful 
to the trusts reposed in her. I believe she is Bill Mar- 
tin’s wife, and really his slave ; but I am sure you can 
trust her.” 


31 


The Strange Nurse, 

Mr. Redfield consulted with his wife, and they de- 
cided not to send for this woman. Mrs. Hanson came 
over and gave them what assistance she could. Other 
neighbors, too, were ready to assist them ; yet, as the 
boy grew steadily worse, all recommended Eunice. 

‘‘ She can do better for your child than you can,** 
said one lady to the tired mother. 1 have seen her 
take a baby in her arms and hush it to sleep, when no- 
body else could quiet it for a moment. The best thing 
you can do, Mrs. Redfield, is to send for her at once. 
She can do anything you need to have done.’* 

Dr. Farrar, whose advice had been unheeded at the 
outset, now repeated it, and Abner Hanson was dis- 
patched for Eunice Poore. 

It was a long, cold drive, and for the last half mile 
before reaching the lonely house, the road was unbroken. 
Curtains were close drawn, and but for the smoke issu- 
ing from the chimney, he would have thought the cottage 
untenanted. Fie rapped on the door, and after some 
delay Eunice Poore appeared and listened to his errand 
without inviting him in. 

I can not go,” she said decidedly. ‘‘ I have been 
out so much that I must stay at home for a while now.** 

These words had hardly been spoken, when a sharp 
bark, as of an angry dog, called her attention, and ask- 
ing Abner to wait for a moment, she stepped back into 
an inner room, shutting the door carefully behind her. 
The boy, who waited, did not hear a sound ; yet he was 
sure that she consulted,. hastily with some one, before 
returning to tell him that she had changed her mind, 
and would be ready to go with him in ten minutes. 

It was but for an instant, yet the scarred face, of 


32 


The Old Tavern. 


which Abner Hanson caught a single glimpse, as he 
turned his horse, could not have been an optical illu- 
sion. Evidently the woman suspected he had seen too 
much, and watched him narrowly, yet she forbore to ask 
him any questions. Indeed, she did not speak during 
the drive to the old tavern, where, after being told what 
was expected of her, she began her work. 

Mr. and Mrs. Redfield could not leave their suffering 
child. Abner Hanson had sometimes relieved them by 
caring for him while they rested for a short time, where 
they could see all that transpired. He had seemed 
to recognize his friends ; but as the disease progressed 
he became wholly unconscious, moaning, and turning 
restlessly. 

Then Eunice Poore was called from the kitchen to the 
sick room, and asked to try her skill. She looked at the 
child for a moment, as if considering what was best to be 
done, then took him quietly in her arms, and commenced 
crooning a soft lullaby, while she paced the floor with slow 
and measured steps. 

Dr. Farrar came in, glanced at her approvingly, and 
left the room without speaking. When followed by Mr. 
Redfield, he said : 

“ Leave your boy with Eunice. She will know if I can 
do any good. If he can sleep to-night there will be a 
chance for him ; otherwise, you must be prepared to give 
him up. That woman has a power I don’t understand, 
and if anybody can save your child, she can.” 

The hours went by, yet the measured steps did not 
falter. The shaven head moved less restlessly, and the 
moans of the sufferer grew fainter ; but there was no 
break in the soothing lullaby. At length the moaning 


The Strange Nurse. 33 

ceased altogether, and the head rested quietly upon the 
arm which seemed not to grow weary. 

Midnight came, and when the clock ceased striking, 
Eunice Poore laid the child upon his bed and sank into a 
chair beside him. Not then, however, was her work end- 
ed. She watched him through the entire night, giving him 
towards morning, a little nourishment, prepared according 
to her own directions. 

When Dr. Farrar came in, he pronounced his patient 
so far out of danger that it was safe to predict recovery. 

“ Eunice will bring him through,” said the physician 
confidently. “ I will look into see how he is getting along, 
but she can manage his case now.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE MYSTERY. 

Whatever might be Eunice Poore’s relations with Bill 
Martin, she had gained the confidence of Samuel Redfield. 
She had, with the blessing of God, saved the life of his 
only son, and his gratitude was unbounded. He had 
paid her higher wages than she asked, or was willing to 
accept, and also assured her that she could count upon 
his friendship in time' of need. 

With him and his wife she had talked little beyond what 
was necessary in regard to her duties ; but she had 
strangely interested and entertained Paul, who insisted 
upon calling her Aunt Eunice. When she was about to 
leave him, he won from her a promise that she would 
come again ; and when she had really gone, he grieved at 
her absence. 

“There is something wrong with Eunice Poore,” said 
Dr. Farrar to Mr. Redfield not long afterward. “ I went 
to her house, yesterday, but no one came to the door 
when I rapped, although I knew there must be some one 
in the house. I tried all the doors, and then called loudly ; 
thinking, perhaps, if she knew who was there, she would 
make some response. At last she spoke, telling me how 
to open the shed door, and asking me to come in. 

“ I found her lying on a lounge in the kitchen, looking 

( 34 ) 


35 


The Mystery, 

as though she had been sick for a month. Her head was 
bound up and one wrist was bandaged. She tried to make 
light of her condition ; saying she had fallen down the cellar 
stairs and got some bruises ; hit her head against a stone, 
and sprained her wrist ; but she should soon be all right. 

“ 1 urged her to let me look at her wrist, and finally 
she consented. It was well she did, too, for it needed a 
surgeon’s hand. I was very anxious to see her head, but 
she absolutely refused that. I knew, by the sharp lines 
of her face, that she was suffering keenly, but she would 
not admit it. She said she had plenty of cooked food, 
and was quite able to take care of herself ; so I had no 
choice but to leave her. She may have fallen down the 
cellar stairs ; but I have my own theory as to the cause 
of the fall.’^ 

“ What is it, doctor ? '' 

“ Bill Martin has been here. I heard, not long ago, he 
had been arrested for stealing, and managed in some way 
to get clear by the payment of money ; and whenever he 
is in trouble, he comes to Eunice Poore for concealment 
and help. If she offended him, he would as soon push 
her down the cellar stairs as do anything else.’^ 

He is a wretch ; and since I have seen Eunice Poore, 
I wonder more and more how she can care for him in any 
way.” 

“ It is one of the mysteries of human nature, Mr. Red- 
field. Bill Martin is wicked enough for anything. People 
think he has made several attenipts to enter this house at 
different times. Have you ever seen him prowling about 
here ? ” 

‘‘ Never. Why should he wish to enter this house 
more than any other ? ” 


36 


The Old Tavern. 


“I don’t know, unless there is money concealed some- 
where on the premises.” 

“ If there had been, you may be sure some of the 
Martin family would have found it long before this time. 
Old Martin had plenty of money when I lived with him; 
but money gained in the way he gained his takes to itself 
wings. I have never seen Bill Martin since I left his 
father, and 1 hope I never shall see him.” 

Abner Hanson had not told Mr. Redfield of the face at 
the window ; but when asked if he had caught sight again 
of the man he had once found in the garden, he answered 
quickly : 

‘‘ I am not sure, sir ; but if I have, he was in Eunice 
Poore’s shed. I thought I saw the same scarred face, but 
it was gone so quick, I could not be certain.” 

Tell me, if you ever think you see it again.” 

‘‘Yes, sir, I will,” replied Abner; suspecting who the 
man might be. 

Months went by without further allusion to the Martin 
family, except when some one remarked upon the im- 
provements which had been made in and about the old 
tavern. 

Paul Redfield not only regained his usual health, but 
under treatment, first recommended by Eunice Poore, 
and afterward endorsed by Dr. Farrar, he was beginning 
to walk, with the aid of crutches. Gradually he dispensed 
with these helps ; so that, before winter, he was able to 
move about at his pleasure. This was cause for great re- 
joicing, and also the occasion of frequent remarks that 
the curse had departed from the house, although there 
was a mystery still unsolved. 

Late in the autumn, near the close of a delightful In 


The Mystery. 37 

dian summer day, two gentlemen drove up to the door^ 
asking entertainment for the night. 

‘‘This is a public house ; is it not ?” said one. 

“ No, sir,’^ replied Mr. Redfield courteously. “ It was 
a public house for more than fifty years ; but, as you see, 
the sign has been taken down, and it is now a private 
residence. I occupy it with my family.^* 

“ Your pardon, sir, but I supposed the house was sti il 
open to the public. I have heard so much of it, that I 
was anxious to see it, and thought I would spend the night 
here ; but of course I shall drive on.” 

Still the gentleman lingered ; until, at last he asked 
abruptly : 

Did you know the place thirty-six or seven years ago ?” 

“Yes, sir, I did,” was replied. 

“ You must have been a boy at that time, but do you 
remember when Mr. Larabee, the peddler, was found, 
frozen to death ? ” 

‘‘ I remember it as distinctly as if it had occurred yes- 
terday.” 

“A man by the name of Martin was landlord here 
then.” 

“ Yes, sir, and I was general chore-boy here then, in- 
doors and out, in kitchen and in stable.” 

“ And you knew Mr. Larabee.” 

“ Yes, sir ; he used to come around this part of the 
country two or three times a year. He gave me the first 
piece of silver money I ever had, and told me to keep it 
for luck.” 

“ And did you keep it ? ” 

“Yes, sir. I was poor enough afterward, and near 
enough to starving, but I didn’t let my shilling go.” 


38 


The Old Tavern. 


“ Did you see him here, the day before he was found 
dead ? ’’ 

“ No, sir ; I went home early in the morning. There 
came a terrible snow storm that blocked the roads, so I 
could not return as soon as I intended. But, if you know 
anything about the circumstances of Mr. Larabee’s death, 
you have heard of that storm.’^ 

^‘Yes, sir, I have, and I wish I could hear more. I 
would pay a large sum for the papers Mr. Larabee carried 
with him, and which, it seems to me, must have been 
taken from him before he left this house.” 

“ I know" people thought so ; although, boy as I was, I 
did not understand the significance of all I saw and heard. 
A great deal of liquor was sold and drapk here, and a 
man who had money w’as likely to leave some of it behind 
him w"hen he left. But for all that, I have heard that old 
Martin died as poor as a beggar.” 

‘‘ He was a beggar, sir. A more wretched creature you 
never saw ; and if he had not been so closely watched by 
one of his sons, I believe he would have confessed to 
what he knew of Larabee. Every effort was made to in- 
duce him to do so, but he feared his son, who, I have no 
doubt, was implicated in the affair.” 

Had the son a scar across his left cheek ?” 

Yes, sir ; and a hideous scar too. I think he w"as the 
most ferocious looking man I ever met, and I am inclined 
to the opinion that he is as black a villain. He has man- 
aged, thus far, to elude justice, but he is not a man to die 
in his bed.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE PROMISE. 

WyiTV A.bner Hanson was eighteen years of age, no 
one wo'iV have recognized him as the boy who had begged 
so ea»-ne'3tly for the privilege of taking care of himself and 
helping his mother. Even Mr. Grimshaw had ceased to 
prophesy evil of him, while those who knew him best 
counted him a marvel of honest, persistent energy. 

He had not attended school a single day, yet he was 
sufficiently well educated to transact any ordinary business 
in a creditable manner. His uniform good nature and 
kindness won for him a cordial welcome wherever he 
went, and made him quite a favorite with both old and 
young. 

Up to this time he had been content to work for Mr. 
Redfield ; doing faithfully what was set for him to do. 
But soon after his eighteenth birth-day it was his fortune 
to render a stranger a service, the result of which changed 
the entire course of his life. 

“ I want just such a young man as I judge you to be, 
to work for me,” said the stranger, adding : I will 

pay you well, to begin with, and increase your salary from 
year to year, if I am not disappointed in you, and I 
don’t believe I shall be. If I send for you, will you come 
to me ?” 


( 39 ) 


40 


The Old Tavern. 


“ If you send for me, I will think of it,” answered 
Abner cautiously. 

‘‘ I can give good references as to character and ability 
to fulfill my engagements,” responded the gentleman with 
a smile ; and soon the references came in the advertising 
columns of a leading newspaper. 

These were followed quickly by a letter, in which Mr. 
Conrad made a definite proposal to Abner Hanson to 
enter his employ. 

“ You could not have a better chance for getting on in 
the world,” said Mr. Redfield, who was consulted. “Mr. 
Conrad^s name is a guaranty for his word, and he offers 
you higher wages than 1 can afford to pay you.” 

“ Then you would advise me to accept his offer,” was 
responded. 

I certainly should, if I was sure that you are strong 
enough to resist temptation.” 

“Temptation to what?” asked the young man. 

“ Temptation to take a social glass with those you may 
be sorry to offend by a refusal. I have never talked to 
you about it, but you and I must be teetotallers or be 
ruined.” 

“ Yes, sir, I know, and I will never taste a drop of 
liquor of any kind, so help me God. Do you think, Mr, 
Redfield, I could be so weak and foolish as to throw away 
my chances for this world and another ? ” 

“ Abner, I have never had reason to think you weak or 
foolish, but you have never yet been tempted, as you cer- 
tainly will be if you accept Mr. Conrad’s offer. If you 
go to the cit}^ you will be surrounded with new associa- 
tions and new influences.” 

“ Yes, sir, I suppose I shall be, but the same God wiP 


The Pi^omise. 


4 ^ 


be over me ; and, Mr. Redfield, I believe I can say no, 
strong enough to be understood. I am sorry to leave you 
all, and sorry to leave my mother, but I think it will be 
best for me to go.’’ 

Having reached this decision, the young i. lan was not 
long in making his preparations. Paul Redfield protested 
against losing his friend, but protests were of no avail. 
The die was cast, and Abner Hanson bade adieu to the 
scenes of his childhood. 

If he suffered from home sickness, he made no com- 
plaint. Mr. Conrad was satisfied with him, and he was 
doing his best to become familiar with his duties. Other 
young men invited him to join them in their “jolly 
times, ridiculing him for his Puritanical notions ; but he 
did not find it difficult to convince them of his indifference 
to their ridicule. He never loitered over his work, or de- 
layed in its performance. 

At the end of a year he was given a short vacation 
which he spent at home ; and then it was that, for the 
third time, he saw the scarred face of Bill Martin. 

While out for a ramble through the woods, he found 
himself near Eunice Poore’s cottage, and going up to it, 
on the side most screened from observation, this face 
appeared to him through an open window. 

Startled by the sight, and unwilling to see more, he has- 
tened away, and had gone some distance when a familiar 
voice called to him. 

“Wait, until I can talk,” gasped the woman who had 
walked so rapidly that it was with difficulty she could 
speak at all; and sitting down, her breath came thick and 
fast, as she pressed her hand against her heart. “ You 
must promise me never to say that you saw any one but 
myself in my house,” she at length whispered hoarsely. 


42 


The Old Tavern. 


I cannot promise that,’* was replied. I have prom- 
ised Mr. Redfield I would tell him if I ever saw that 
man again.” 

What does he want to know for ? ” asked Eunice 
Poore in an excited tone. 

‘‘1 don’t know,” answered the young man. ‘‘He 
asked me to tell him, and I promised I would. So I 
must, I can not break my word.” 

“ Oh, what shall I do ! ” cried the wretched woman. 

“ He will kill me, and But I am talking wildly. 

Don’t mind me, I have been having such a terrible head- 
ache, it has made me almost crazy. Of course, 1 am not 
afraid of being killed. Who would want to injure me ! 
But, Abner, it will do no good to tell Mr. Redfield. 
I will see that he is never injured. He has promised to 
be my friend in time of need” 

“ Then trust him, Eunice. He will keep his word- 
He never fails. 1 must tell him what I have seen, and I 
will tell him anything else you wish me to.” 

“ It can’t do any hurt to break this promise, Abner.” 

“ It would hurt me, and I should never dare look Mr. 
Redfield in the face again. I never told him a lie yet, and 
I can not.” 

“ Don’t say it, Abner,” cried the woman, seizing 
his hand. “You wouldn’t if you knew all. There 
are worse things than breaking your promise. Think, Ab- 
ner, I did my best for Paul Redfield, and Dr. Farrar says 
I saved his life. “Oh, my God, what a life mine has 
been,” she added after a short silence. “A drunken 

father, drunken brothers, and now , Abner, the man 

you saw saved my life. My father would have killed me 
if he had not interfered. I owe him something for that ; 


The Promise. 


43 


and now other people are against him, he has a right to 
expect me to do what I can for him. How can I go back 
home, unless you promise what I want you to ? I might 
better diej* 

Again she interrupted herself, seeking to efface the im- 
pression made by her last remark. Half maddened with 
fear and anxiety, she had lost her usual self-control. 

Abner Hanson pitied her as he had never pitied any 
person before. She was pleading as for her life, and now, 
in her agony, she clutched him by the arm and held him fast. 

‘‘Promise me not to tell Mr. Redfield for three days,’* 
she sobbed at last. 

“ I promise,” he answered. “ I will not even tell any 
one that I have seen you. If I can help you in any way 
I shall be glad to do it. Why must you live on as you 
have been living ? ” 

“Because 1 must. I am bound to my life as it is, and 
no one can help me. Sometime it will all be over and 1 
shall rest. It has not been so happy that I should care 
to prolong it, yet I am not ready to die. My mother 
taught me that there is another world beyond this. Do 
you believe it, Abner ? ” 

“Yes, I do, Eunice. The Bible says so, and the Bible 
is true.” 

“The Bible says, too, that no drunkard can enter the 
kingdom of Heaven. How many belonging to me must 
be shut out, and I with the rest ! ” 

“ You are not .” 

“ I am not a drunkard, Abner. I would not taste of 
liquor, to save the man you saw in my house. I hate it 
with my whole being. Abner, as you value your soul, 
never taste a single drop.” 


44 


The Old Tavern. 


I never will ; I never have.” 

“But your time has not come. You are poor, now; 
but when you are rich, and you meet beautiful women 
who ask you to pledge them in the wine cup ; then will be 
your time of trial. Then beware. Such as you can not 
stop with a glass.” 

“ I know that. Mr. Redlield has talked with me about 
it and 1 have promised him.” 

“ That is well. But he will need to look sharp after 
Paul, and you must be the boy’s friend. He will need all 
the safeguards he can have. He will be more easily in- 
fluenced than you. I am a poor woman, without friends 
or a name, but what touches Paul Redfield touches me. 
I have loved many children, but I have loved only one 
other as I love him. He must not learn to despise me, as 
he grows older. That would be too much for me to 
bear.” 

“ He will not learn to despise you. Every one in his 
father’s house respects and esteems you, and any friend of 
yours is safe from harm by them.” 

“ Do you believe that ? Do you know it ? ” 

I know it, and while I can not break my word for 
you, I pledge you my word that no harm shall come to 
you or yours because of anything I shall say to Mr. Red- 
field.” 

“ Then go and leave me to my fate, and in the hour of 
temptation remember what I have said to you.” 


CHAPTER Vni. 


THE REVELATION. 

How it fared with Eunice Poore after her interview 
with Abner Hanson, no one knew, save God, herself, and 
the man whose anger she had so feared. 

The years went by, leaving their impress upon her as 
well as upon others. Her strength was failing, and as she 
earned less, people suspected that, when at home, she 
sometimes suffered for the want of sufficient food. As 
Dr. Farrar was supposed to know more of her condition 
than any one else, he was often interrogated in regard to 
her, but even he could not speak with certainty. 

‘‘ I am sure she is suffering, and yet she will not ackowl- 
edge it or allow me to help her,” said Mrs. Redfield to the 
good doctor. 

“ She is suffering and she needs help,” was replied. ‘‘ I 
am sure of that, and it is my opinion she is dying by inches. 
She ought to be well taken care of in some comfortable 
hon>e, and not be living alone in that out-of-the-way place. 
I expect she will be found there, dead. She has changed 
fearfully within the last few months. 

“ She seefus to have lost her interest in everybody 
about here, except your family and Abner Hanson. She 

( 45 ) 


46 


The Old Tavern. 


always inquires for you and him whenever I see her. She 
asks a great many questions about Paul. She will never 
lose her interest in him.’* 

‘‘ He would like to visit her, but she has never asked 
him to do so.” 

She never invites company, IVlrs. Redfield, but she 
says she wishes to see Abner Hanson when he comes. 
She has great respect for him, and I think she would talk 
with him more frankly than with any one else. I don’t 
know why, but when I told her he would be here his 
twenty-fourth birthday, she said: ‘Tell him to come to 
my house.’ ” 

Abner Hanson’s home visits were always occasions of 
rejoicing to all who knew him. Mr. Patten and Mr. 
Redfield watched his career with both pride and pleasure ; 
while there was not a poor boy in town who did not take 
courage from his example. 

“ What do you do when you are invited to take a so- 
cial glass with a friend ? ” asked Mr. Patten, as they were 
conversing in a familiar way. 

“ Refuse, of course,” was replied. 

“And is one refusal sufficient, Abner?” 

“Yes, sir; I can say* no, so that I am understood the 
first time. It is easy enough. I have never been really 
tempted to drink a glass of liquor in my life. I have 
been asked to do so many times, but my mind is so firmly 
made up that all the asking is nc temptation to me. 
There is everything in being decided ; in having a prin- 
ciple and letting people know it. When a house is builded 
upon a rock, the winds may blow and the floods may 
come, but the house will stand firm. Thank God, I have 
a sure foundation which can not be moved. It is more 


The " Revelation. 


47 

than eleven years, Mr. Patten, since I determined to do 
the best I could, and 

“ You have done it.” 

I have tried. I have made some mistakes, but they 
were faults of my head rather than of my heart ; and, 
please God, I mean to keep on doing my best.” 

Abner had not forgotten Eunice Poore, or ceased to 
regard her with friendly interest ; so that, when told she 
wished to see him, he made no delay in calling upon her. 
The door stood ajar ; the windows were open, and the 
curtains were looped back, to admit air and sunshine. 
The owner of the cottage was at home and alone, glad to 
see her visitor, and welcoming him with a cordiality 
quite unusual to her. 

I thought it was about time for you to come, and 
hoped you would remember me,” she said, with an effort 
to speak cheerfully. ‘‘ I suppose the fatted calf has been 
killed for you.” 

‘‘ I am not a returning prodigal,” he answered. “ I have 
not wasted my substance in riotous living, and afterward 
fed upon husks.” 

“ No, you have not, Abner. How happy your friends 
must be to know it. It is dreadful to be always fearing 
and doubting for those you love best. There can’t many 
people feel that as I do. You won’t see a scarred face 
here, now, so you will have nothing to telj Mr. Redfield.” 

“What I told him did no harm.” 

“ I don’t know as it did, only it has been all harm to 
me from beginning to end ; and the end is almost here. 
Abner Hanson, I shall not live a year.” 

Here she paused, turning away and covering her face 
with- her hands. There was no sound of sobbing, but 


48 


The Old Tavern. 


when she again addressed her companion there were 
traces of tears upon her cheeks. 

“ 1 did not mean to tell you that, at first, but it was 
uppermost in my thoughts, and it is a relief, sometimes, to 
tell your troubles. But you must not repeat it.” 

“ I hope you are mistaken in thinking you shall die so 
soon,” said the young man. 

‘‘ I am not ; I have seen too much of sickness to be 
mistaken.” 

“ But the doctor might help you.” 

I am beyond his help. I must die. I don^t know why 
I chose you to hear what I must say to some one I can 
trust, but it seemed to me it would be wiser to talk to you 
than to any one else. I know I can trust you.” 

“ You can.” 

And you will carry out my wishes ? ” 

“ I will, so far as I can without injuring others.” 

I shall not ask you to do that ; but, Abner, you will 
not betray a man who has only a few years to live.” 

I will not, unless it is necessary to serve a better 
man.” 

“ I won’t ask more than that. There has been wicked- 
ness enough. I never helped him in that, though 1 have 
helped him to get clear of punishment. I have worked 
and slaved for that man thirty years, and now I am dying 
for him. I can’t tell you how it was. I wonder at it 
myself; but the man is my husband. We were married 
by a minister, and I have as good a right to my husband’s 
name as any other woman has to hers.” 

‘‘ Then, why were you not called by it ? ” 

‘‘ I can’t tell you why, and it wouldn’t do any good if I 
could. He furnished the money to pay for this house and 


The Revelation. 


49 


land, and when I am gone it will belong to him. I want 
to leave everything just as it is ; so if he ever comes back 
he can have a home. Perhaps he won’t come. ^ don’t 
know.” 

Abner Hanson found it difficult to reply to this woman’s 
confidence. He could only say, as he had said before, that 
she could trust him, and he would be happy to serve her 
in any way that he could. At length he asked if she 
would not be likely to see her husband within a few 
months. 

He is in prison for three years,” she responded. “ I 
couldn’t help him. It is the first time I ever failed him, 
and he was sentenced for three years. I have written a 
long letter, hoping you would give it to him when he 
comes out. It will be some trouble and expense to you, 
and I wish I could pay you for it ; but I have only money 
enough left for my funeral expenses. After working so 
hard, I can’t bear to think of being buried like a pauper. 
I will tell you where my husband is.” 

I will see him and give him the letter, as you desire,’^ 
said Abner, when he had received the necessary instruc- 
tions for so doing. 

‘‘ And will you speak a kind word to him for my sake ? ” 
asked the woman pleadingly. 

“ I willj and if I can do a kind act for him it shall be 
done.’^ 

I can not tell you how much I thank you,” she 
responded, and after that avoided any further allusion to 
her husband. 

They talked of Mr. Redfield’s family, of Abner’s 
mother, and lastly, of himself and his prospects ; which, 

4 


50 


The Old Tavern. 


he assured her, were all and better than he had presumed 
to expect. 

“ You have not been tempted above what you were 
able to bear ? 

“ I have not/* 

‘‘ Has a beautiful woman ever asked you to drink wine 
with her ? ** 

‘‘ Never.** 

‘‘ Then your hour has not come. When it does come, 
as it certainly will, remember that I have warned you; 
and may God bless you for ever and ever.** 


CHAPTER IX. 


T HE POOR-HOUSE. 

As Dr. Farrar had expected, Eunice Poore was found 
dead in her house. She had died alone, leaving no clew 
to her life before she had become the wife of William 
Martin. 

Those who came to perform for her the last sad offices 
were startled at the preparations she had herself made. 
They had but to open a drawer, and there lay every 
article which would be required in their work. Dainty 
garments, too, they were, all unlike those to which she 
had been accustomed in her poverty. 

“ Here is her marriage certificate,’’ said a woman softly. 
“ She must have put it here, so’ that we might see it. 
Poor soul ! She wanted us to think as well of her as we 
could when she was gone.” 

“ Yes, yes, but come here,” replied another, who had 
been engaged in disrobing the dead body. 

For a moment they stood horror-stricken at the sight 
which met their gaze. Eunice Poore had died by inches, 
of slow torture such as no words can describe. A heavy 
blow had produced an injury which, after various stages 
of development, had resulted in her death. 

“ And we never dreamed what she was suffering,” re- 

( 51 ) 


52 


The Old Tavern. 


marked one. It makes me shudder to think what she 
had to bear. No wonder she stayed at home. Is it 
possible that Dr. Farrar knew ? ’’ 

He did not know^ but he had suspected vihdX was now 
proved to be true ; and he had tried to win the woman’s 
confidence. Refusing this, and trusting to her own skill, 
she had seen one day go by after another, until for her 
the last one dawned. 

Many were the expressions of pity for her who had 
so cruelly suffered, and many were the tears shed in that 
lonely house over her unhappy fate. 

In a Bible which lay on a small stand in the kitchen 
was an open letter directed to Mr. Redfield, and enclosing 
a sealed message to Paul. This was delivered as soon 
as possible, after which the gentleman assumed the respon- 
sibility of arranging for the funeral. 

On the day appointed a large concourse of people 
assembled to pay their tribute of respect to one who had, 
for so many years, gone in and out among them as a 
trusted servant. The officiating clergyman, who had 
found it impossible to converse with her upon the subject 
of religion, said he was thankful to know that in the 
loneliness and darkness of her last days, Mrs. Martin 
had looked to the Source of all light and comfort ; and 
trusting in One mighty to save, had laid down her burdens 
at the foot of the cross. In confirmation of this, he read 
an extract from the open letter, in which she expressed 
her faith in God, and the assurance that her sins were 
forgiven. 

It was well that she was at rest, beyond the reach of 
him who had doomed her to isolation and misery ; yet 
she would be missed in many a household, where her 


The Poor-house, 


53 

presence had been as a tower of strength in the hour of 
trial. 

Again the fortunes of the Martin family were the topics 
of conversation throughout the town. Old people com- 
pared notes ; refreshing each other’s memory, and prophe- 
sying that the time would come when all mysteries would 
be explained. In the poor-house, among the paupers, 
were those whose property had been sacrificed over the 
bar and the card tables in the old tavern, and who were 
bitter in their denunciations of its landlords. 

‘‘Zeke Redfield wa’n’t half so bad as folks tried to 
make him out,” remarked one. “ Old Martin took advan- 
tage of him every way ; and when he took out the papers, 
binding Sam to the old man, there was a sheriff ready to 
serve a writ on him and take him to jail if he hadn’t 
done it.” 

“ All that may be, but it was the liquor that did the 
business. Uncle Sam. You and I know that. If we 
hJtdn’t drank it, we shouldn’t be here now.” 

“I know it, and sometimes when I get to thinking 
about it, it makes me ’most crazy. But then we deserve 
to be punished. We brought it on ourselves. It was 
hardest on the women who couldn’t help themselves. 
There was Polly Barnes. You remember her, don’t 
you ? ” 

“ I guess I do. I aint likely to forget her. She was 
the handsomest girl, to me, I ever saw. She was smart, 
too, and chipper as a bird. I’m an old man now, but I 
can remember how happy I was when she let me go home 
with her one night. She ought to have had somebody to 
take good care of her.” 

“ She thought she had. Everybody spoke well of An 


54 


The Old Tavern, 


son Haynes. He was very temperate, and I never could 
understand how he got to drinking as he did/^ 

I can tell you about that, Uncle Lem. Tom Martin 
wanted Polly himself, but she wouldn’t have anything to 
say to him ; and he swore he would have his revenge. 
He set to work to make a drunkard of Anson Haynes, 
and he succeeded. The night Polly went to the tavern 
after her husband, Tom talked so bad to her, his father 
told him to shut up.” 

“ I was there that night, and if I ever wanted to give a 
man a horse-whipping, I did then. But Tom got his 
deserts when he was imprisoned for life. He will have 
plenty of time to think over his evil deeds. People say 
he has a family somewhere.” 

“ Well for them he is shut up.” 

“ So it is ; though when he was a small boy, folks 
thought he favored his mother, and she was a good 
wornan. Bill was the old man over again, and Thankful 
didn’t seem to belong among them any way. After her 
mother died the poor girl just faded away.” 

‘‘ Yes, I remember about it now. I haint thought of 
her for a good many years ; but Eunice Poore’s dying, 
and knowing she was Bill’s wife, has brought it all back to 
me. Thankful was a nice girl, and they said Tom was as 
good to her, when she was sick, as he knew how to be.” 

If Tom had let liquor alone he might have been a 
decent man. I don’t know but Jim might too. You 
can’t always tell how much difference liquor makes with a 
man. It has made the difference between a good home 
and the poor-house with me. If I could live my life over 
again, there wouldn’t a cent of my money go into the 
rum-seller’s till. No wonder old Martin got rich.” 


The Poor-house. 


55 


‘‘No wonder he got poor either. He never had an} 
mercy on anybody he once got into his clutches. I used 
to pity Sam Rediield, and when he came here the other 
day, as first selectman, to look after us paupers, it hurt me 
more than anything that has happened since I lost my 
farm.” 

“ It was pretty hard on us, but he didn’t set up to be 
any better than we are. They say he never tasted a drop 
of liquor in his life. Abner Hanson haint either, and 
they are the two smartest men ever raised in town. I ex- 
pect Abner will be the richest.” 

“ That’s what I expect, too, and we might, both of us, 
have been well-off if we had kept away from the old 
tavern.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE TEMPTATION. 

A Month’s vacation was a new experience to Abnei 
Hanson ; but harder work and closer application were 
before him, and Mr. Conrad advised a long rest. Two 
weeks he spent in his native town, and then went to the 
seaside for recreation, and, as he said, to see something 
of summer society. 

He was twenty-six years of age, and yet, so busy had 
he been with every day’s duties and plans for self-improve- 
ment, that he was still heart whole. When a poor clerk, 
with a small salary, he received few invitations to take 
him from his evening studies, but now that he was known 
as a rising man, likely to make his mark in the business 
world, there were many to smile upon him, 

Mr. and Mrs. Conrad invited him to their house, where 
he caught some glimpses of fashionable life ; yet, as there 
were no young people in the family, there was little of real 
gayety. In the city he had studied books and business ; at 
the seaside he studied men and women. 

Not a trace of awkwardness revealed his want of early 
training. He was hardly in danger of offending against 
the most fastidious rules of etiquette, so that he was quite 
at ease wherever he might be. 

The hotel at which he registered his name was thronged 
(56) 


57 


The Temptation. 

with guests, among whom were some who knew him to 
stand high in Mr. Conrad’s esteem, and who therefore cul- 
tivated his acquaintance. He was introduced to beautiful 
girls and charming women, who received him graciously. 

Among the former was Belle Boyd, brilliant, attractive, 
and knowing well how to win admiration from those she 
counted worthy of her favor. Abner Hanson pleased her 
fancy ; perhaps because he was so unlike her ordinary 
admirers. 

He had some purpose in life. He was strong to over- 
come obstacles in his path toward success, and, if need be, 
extend a helping hand to others. 

He had no accomplishments. He could not dance, or 
sing, or play billiards. He never touched a pack of cards. 
He could not talk learnedly of the comparative merits of 
different kinds of liquors. 

He attended church regularly; was a teacher in the 
Sunday-school, and a professing Christian, whose life in- 
dorsed his profession. All this, however, did not make 
him a less agreeable companion to the young lady, who 
found his sincerity and hearty enjoyment of simple pleas- 
ures strangely fascinating. 

“What have you been doing all your life ? ” she asked 
him one day, when he had acknowledged his ignorance of 
some idle amusement. 

“ Working,” he replied pleasantly. “ I have had no 
time to amuse myself, or even to feel the need of being 
amused.” 

“That is the most amusing part of it,” she responded, 
with a laugh, the music of which would haunt him who 
heard it for days. “It is really refreshing to meet some 
one who does not need to be amused.” 


58 


The Old Tave}'‘n, 


The tone in which this was said gave to the words a 
significance peculiarly their own, and not to be lost upon 
him to whom they were addressed. Others talked of the 
flirtation between Mr. Hanson and Belle Boyd, but he 
surely, was not flirting. 

Two weeks passed all too quickly, bringing the hour of 
parting, when he blamed himself for the wish to linger 
longer, although he knew that duty railed him elsewhere. 
He had not cared to analyze his feelings, or consider 
seriously the character of one he had found so pleasant a 
companion. 

He hoped to meet her again in the coming winter, 
when she was to visit some friends in the same city with 
himself; and this hope sometimes reached beyond the 
immediate future. 

He was not disappointed in his expectations. The 
young lady apprised him of her presence, and when he 
made an early call, he was received most graciously by her 
hostess, as well as by herself. 

He was her escort to concerts, lectures, and other 
entertainments which did not conflict with his principles. 
He met her at parties, where she was the recipient of most 
flattering attentions, and still she showed him a marked 
preference. 

In all this intercourse he saw nothing to lessen his 
regard for her, although he half questioned whether she 
was, indeed, the ideal woman he had dreamed he would, 
one day, enshrine in his heart and home. Questioning, 
however, was almost at an end, when, after an evening in 
which his refusal to take wine had made him really con- 
spicuous, she asked him if he never tasted of wine. 

‘‘ Never,” he replied. 


The Temptation. 59 

Under some circumstances you could hardly refuse/ 
she responded. 

“ Under any and all circumstances I should refuse,” 
answered Abner Hanson. 

“ I may put you to the test,” said the young lady laugh- 
ingly, and then, observing her companion’s serious man- 
ner, she changed the subject of conversation. 

It was not long before he had reason to recall this 
laughing menace. In a crowded supper-room Belle Boyd 
challenged him to drink her health, with an air of assur- 
ance which seemed to admit of no denial. His face 
flushed, but he declined the honor. 

‘‘ You will not drink to my health ? ” she said in a tone of 
mingled surprise and reproach. 

“ I will not taste of wine to please even you, ^ he 
answered under his breath. 

“ You are no loyal knight, Mr. Hanson, if you refuse a 
lady so small a favor. How can you be so recreant ? ” 

“ I can^ because I willl' and these words were only 
whispered. 

Chagrined, and yet determined not to betray her dis- 
comfiture, she was soon sipping wine with the most elegant 
man in the room. To Abner Hanson’s dismay and indig- 
nation, he saw that another had yielded to her wiles. 
Giles Morgan, too, the last man who should have thus 
yielded, and he waited to see the end. He thought of 
Eunice Poore, and thanked God for the warning which 
had not lost its power. 

He was safe, but Giles Morgan was in danger. One 
glass did not suffice for the appetite which had only 
^umbered. Even the temptress shuddered at the result 
of her thoughtless act, and which, but for one who had 


6o 


The Old Tauern. 


proved himself a true and loyal knight, without fear and 
without reproach, would have been more disastrous. 
Without seeking their hostess, Abner Hanson led the 
excited man from the company. 

“ I hoped Giles Morgan had learned more of self- 
control,” said a lady standing near. “ He has been doing 
splendidly for the last two years, but it is all over with him 
now. No one can tell where he will stop.” 

‘‘ Is it possible that he has ever been dissipated ?” was 
asked in response to these remarks. 

“Certainly he has been,” was replied. “He went 
down so low, that his family quite ignored him, except for 
a sister who clung to him through everything, determined 
to save him in spite of himself. It will be a terrible blow 
to her when she knows of his fall.’^ 

But it was no time to discuss unpleasant subjects, and 
presently all seemed to have forgotten that there were 
sorrow and sadness in the world. Belle Boyd had heard 
this short colloquy, yet she, too, was gay as the gayest. 

That night, in the privacy of her room, she reviewed 
the events of the evening. She had no part to play there, 
and she wept bitterly ; not so much because of Giles 
Morgan’s fall, as because of Abner Hanson’s indifference. 
Loving him, or not, she had set her heart upon marrying 
him. 

She tried to believe that morning would bring him to 
her side, when a little explanation would set all things 
right. But the entire day passed without sight of him. 
Other days came and went, until at last she knew he 
would come to her no more. 

Abner Hanson would have periled his life for Belle Boyd, 
but he would not sacrifice for her one jot of principle. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE FALL. 

A MERCHANT sat alone in his counting-room, when the 
door opened to admit a visitor, whom he greeted cor-' 
dially. 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Hanson. What can I do for you 
this morning ? I have been a good deal put about these 
few days, but I am always ready for business, as well as 
yourself.’^ 

‘‘ I have come in behalf of a friend,” said the young 
man in response to this greeting, while he watched closely 
tne effect of his words. 

I suppose you mean Giles Morgan ; and I may as 
rvell tell you, to begin with, that 1 shall have nothing more 
to do with him,” was replied. “ I gave him a good 
chance, and he has thrown it away. I calculated to take 
him into partnership, but he has settled that without con- 
sulting me. No use talking, Mr. Hanson ; no use at all. 
A man who can not drink a glass of wine without getting 
beastly drunk, is too far gone for me. Happy to oblige 
you in anything else.” 

“ Have you seen Mr. Morgan ? ” 

“ No, sir ; I never want to see him again.” 

Do you know how he came to drink a glass of 
wine ? ” 

“ No, sir; that makes no difference. I don’t object to 
that. Any gentleman may take a glass of wine. Thai 

(6i) 


62 


The Old Tavern. 


was all right, if he had only stopped there ; but 1 have 
heard that he has been on a drunk ever since/^ 

“ He is sober now,” 

“ I hope he will keep sober.” 

I think he will, Mr. Doty.” 

“ I am glad you have confidence in him. He needs all 
the friends he can get.” 

“ Suppose I go surety for his good behavioi in future, 
Mr. Doty. If you will give him another trial, I will 
engage to make good any loss which may result to you 
from so doing.” 

But I don’t want him around me. I have had enough 
of him. I never wish to see him again.” 

I am sorry for that, Mr. Doty. Giles Morgan has 
been more sinned against than sinning. He was tempted 
beyond what he was able to bear. He could not drink one 
glass of wine without drinking more. You could not 
expect it of him.” 

“ Any man ought to be able to do that \ to know when 
he has taken enough, and then stop.” 

“Yes, sir; and according to my creed, he ought to 
stop before he takes any. It is life or death with Giles 
Morgan now. You hold his destiny in your hands.” 

“You put it strongly, Mr. Hanson.” 

“ No more strongly than truly; and, Mr. Doty, you are 
under obligations to save him. You owe it to him, to 
give him a helping hand and put him on his feet again. 
He has a right to expect mercy and gratitude from you.” 

“ What do you mean, Mr. Hanson ? I have dealt fairly 
with him. For what should I be grateful to him ? E» 
plain your meaning.” 

“ I did not intend to tell you, sir. Morgan would not 


The Fall. 


63 


tell you, if he died for it, and he will blame me, but I 
must leave nothing undone to change your purpose in 
regard to him. Pardon me, Mr. Doty, if I trespass upon 
family matters. One year ago, I think, you were anxious 
in regard to the habits of your son, Harry.” 

“ You are trespassing, Mr. Hanson,’^ said the merchant 
sharply. “ I never talk of family matters outside of my 
home. My son Harry is all I could desire.” 

“Does he ever taste of wine?’' asked Abner Hanson, 
still holding his companion to the desired point. 

“That is a strange question for you to ask, Mr. Han- 
son, but Harry told me, yesterday, that he had been a 
pledged teetotaler for nearly a year.” 

“And were you glad to know that, Mr. Doty ?” 

“ I was ; because, whatever I may think of the use of 
wine, so long as he never drinks at all, he can never drink 
too much.” 

“ Supposing he should once more drink too much, Mr. 
Doty, would you cast him off? ” 

“1 couldn’t, Mr. Hanson. Why, he is rny son; 
my first-born child. Of course, I couldn’t give him 
up. But what has that to do with Giles Morgan ? He 
has no such claims upon me as has Harry.” 

“He has a claim upon you for Harry’s sake. I am 
sure your son will tell you what that claim is.” 

“You talk in riddles, Mr. Hanson. But, now I think 
of it, Harry asked me a good many questions about Mor- 
gan, and advised me not to be too severe with him. Why 
didn’t the boy speak out if he had anything to say? But 
here he comes to speak now for himself.” 

Abner Hanson stayed only to exchange greetings with 
the younger man, and then went out, leaving father and 


64 


The Old Tavern. 


son sole occupants of the room. Later in the day Mr. 
Doty called upon him, desiring a private interview, in 
which the former expressed his gratitude for what he had 
at first considered an unwarranted liberty. 

‘‘ I have heard it all from Harry, who came to make the 
same request you had made,” said the merchant. “ I 
never can do enough for Morgan. It seems as though a 
man ought to be strong enough to drink a glass of wine 
and have that end it, but if he knows he can not, then he 
ought to be strong enough to refuse the first glass, even if 
it is urged upon him by a beautiful woman. Harry told 
me how Morgan came to drink wine.’* 

“ He was strongly tempted, Mr. Doty.” 

“ Would it have been a temptation to you, Mr. Han- 
son?” 

‘‘It was not a temptation to me, Mr. Doty, because 
under no circumstances could I be induced to taste the 
cursed stuff. I hate it. There are hundreds of young 
men in this city who are going to ruin because they have 
no principle against dram-drinking, and there are hundreds 
of older men whose influence is all on the wrong side. 
Your son and the sons of a hundred other fathers are 
looking to such as you for an example of noble living. 
Pardon me, Mr. Doty, but I am moved to speak plainly.” 

“ I am in the mood to pardon the plainest speaking, 
Mr. Hanson. I have seen Morgan and he will take his 
old place with me to-morrow. If he falls again, it shall 
not be for lack of encouragement.” ♦ 

So Giles Morgan was saved. A year after, he was ad- 
mitted to partnership by Mr. Doty, on which occasion 
Abner Hanson was invited to the house of the seniof 
partner, where a sumptuous dinner was served without wine. 


CHAPTER XIL 


THE PRISONER. 

An old man, whose term of imprisonment had just ex- 
pired, looked on in wonder, as before him was unrolled a 
bundle containing a new and substantial suit of clothing, 
which, the officer told him, had been provided for him by 
a friend. 

“ Where is she ? ” asked the old man sharply. 

‘‘ Do you mean the person who brought the bundle ? ** 
was asked in reply. 

“ Yes. It was a woman, wasn’t it ? ” 

A gentleman brought it, and he is waiting for you in 
the outer room.” 

It was Abner Hanson who waited for Bill Martin, that 
he might redeem his promise made to Eunice Poore. 
This was not his first visit to the prison, although he had 
never seen the prisoner while within its walls. 

“ Sullen and uncommunicative,” was the character re- 
ported by the warden at each visit. ‘‘ He will probably 
come back on a life sentence. It will take only a prim- 
ing of liquor to make him ready for any crime ; and such 
men as he go for liquor the first thing when they get out.” 

‘^I shall hope to prevent that,” said Abner Hanson in 
response to this discouraging prophecy. ‘‘ I promised hia 
wife I would be a friend to him for her sake.” 

“ It is all well enough to try, sir, but I have seen too 

5 (65) 


66 


The Old Tavern. 


many bad men to have much hope of him. Wives are al 
ways trying to help their husbands, no matter how wicked 
they are, but Martin is one of the worst.” 

Although the young man knew this to be true, he was 
hardly prepared for the defiant air with which his overtures 
of friendship were received. Not a word spoke the man 
who glared at him savagely, recalling the scene in the gar- 
den of the old tavern so many years before. 

“ I have a message to you from your wdfe,” he said at 
length. 

“ Where is she ? ” growled the wretch. “ Why didn’t 
she bring her own messages ? ” 

“She could not, and so sent it by me,” replied Mr. 
Hanson. “ I have a carriage at the door, waiting to take 
us to a comfortable room v/here we can talk at our leisure. 
I will explain to you there why your wife did not come.” 

“ Have you set a trap for me and expect me to run my 
neck into it ? ” 

“ No, Mr. Martin, I have not. I came here this morn- 
ing, because I promised your wife that I would come ; and 
I don’t believe you are such a coward as to fear to trust 
yourself with me.” 

The right chord was struck, and to prove himself not a 
coward. Bill Martin entered the waiting carriage, while his 
friend sprang to a seat with the driver. After a short 
drive they stopped at a plain house, and were shown into 
a room containing a few articles of cheap furniture. Upon 
a table, laid for one, was hot coffee, with a plenty of sub- 
stantial food, of which the old man was urged to partake. 

“ Who paid for it ? ” he demanded. 

“ I paid for it,” replied Abner Hanson. I did it foi 
your wife’s sake.” 


The Prisoner. 


67 

‘‘Why didn’t she come herself? Who said I had a wife 
anyway? There’s a woman that thinks so, but I never 
wanted a wife. Always ’round when they aint of any use, 
and missing when they might do a man some good.” 

‘‘Your wife, Eunice Poore, is dead, and you gave her 
her death-blow.” 

An ashy pallor overspread the face of the man thus ac- 
cused. His lips moved, but he uttered no sound. At 
length he found voice to say : 

“ Who said I killed her ? If she said so, she lied. Did 
she tell Dr. Farrar ? She brought it on herself. She had 
too many fine notions to live with me. She might have 
done what I told her to. She wouldn’t had any trouble if 
she had.” 

In his excitement he had spoken unguardedly, thus vir- 
tually acknowledging himself to be the murderer of his 
wife. Soon, however, he realized his imprudence and be- 
gan to brandish his arms and stamp his feet, as he cried : 

“ I didn’t kill Eunice Poore, and anybody that says I 
did shall suffer for it.” 

“ Have a care, Mr. Martin. I promised to speak a kind 
word to you for her sake, but I did not promise to bear 
abuse from you. It will be better for you now to read her 
letter.” 

When sober, Bill Martin was easily intimidated; and 
that he had some human feelings, was shown by the fact 
that, as he broke the seal of the letter, he held it with such 
trembling hands it fell to the floor. It was returned to 
him ; but after several ineffectual attempts to read it, he 
exclaimed : 

“I caiit read it. I can’t, and I won’t try. Let me go i 
I don’t care where, if I can only get out of sight. Who 


68 The Old Tavern. 

are you, and what do you know about Eunice Poore, oi 
me either?’^ 

‘‘I am Abner Hanson,” was replied. ‘‘ I saw you first 
in the garden of the old tavern. I have seen you twice 
since in your wife’s house. I lived with Samuel Redfield 
six years. So, as you can understand, I am pretty well 
acquainted with the circumstances of your life. I think I 
know you for just what you are ; a villain of the deepest 
dye. Your wife was a good woman, and for her sake I 
would help you if I could.” 

“ You won’t set the officers on me.” 

No, Mr. Martin, I won’t. Why should I ? I have no 
wish to injure you ; but if you value your liberty, you will 
be careful of your conduct in future. You can not live 
long, at the longest. Why not try to make some amends 
for your past wickedness ! ” 

‘‘Shut up your preaching,” shrieked Bill Martin, and 
then relapsed into silence, while his companion regarded 
him with a fixed gaze. Presently, he asked : 

“ Did you ever know an old, scraggy tree to straighten 
up and stand fair and square to the weather? It can’t 
be done,” he answered, without waiting for a reply. “ No 
more can I live a goodish life like Sam Redfield.” 

“ Sam Redfield is a noble man, Mr. Martin.” 

“ 1 didn’t say anything against him. He always had 
good pluck, but I wish I had his money. Here, let me out 
of this. I can’t stand it any more than I could stand 
being in Heaven. This aint any place for me. You’ve 
treated me fair, and I’ll remember it, but I must get out 
of this.” 

Before Abner Hanson could prevent it. Bill Martin waa 
gone ; and he knew full well that pursuit would be useless 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE HIDDEN PAPERS. 

Eunice Poore's house was unoccupied. Everything 
remained as she had left it, except where moth and rust 
had done their work; while dust gathered on floor and 
furniture. 

An occasional visitor would glance hurriedly around 
and then hasten away, as if fearful of encountering the 
evil spirit of the place. Yet the neighbors looked in vain 
for a single puff of smoke from the chimney which might 
betray Bill Martin's presence : and the authorities of the 
town were about to sell the property, when Abner Hanson 
volunteered to pay the taxes. 

“Are you keeping the house for the man that killed 
Eunice Poore?" asked Paul Redfield, while enjoying a 
summer ramble with this friend. 

“ I am keeping it for her husband," was replied. “ He 
is beyond my reach, but .it may be that he will sometime 
seek shelter in the old home." 

“ And do you care, Abner, to have him find it ? " 

“Yes, Paul, I do. It seems almost strange that I 
should, but I am always on the lookout for him." 

“ I hate him for treating Aunt Eunice so. He deserves 
to be hanged." 

“ I presume he does, yet I would not be the means ol 
Oringing him to the gallows." 

(^> 9 ) 


70 


The Old Tavern. 


Paul Redfield made no reply to this remark. They 
were nearing the deserted house ; and despite the sunshine, 
with song of birds and hum of bees, he felt its influence. 
He stepped more cautiously, and kept closer to his friend. 

‘‘ Are you going in ? he asked at length. 

“ Certainly, I am,” was replied. 

The door creaked and groaned, as it was pushed open 
to admit the two young men who stood side by side in the 
little kitchen, where so many scenes of cruelty had trans- 
pired. 

“You know that Eunice feared for you,” said Abnei 
Hanson, resting his hand upon his companion’s shoulder. 

“ I do know it, for she told me, but I have no fears foi 
myself. I know where I am safe. Father and mother 
have talked with me. I am old Zeke Redfield’s grand- 
son.” 

“ His only grandson, too, Paul, and you owe it to the 
world to make your name honorable.” 

“ God helping me, Abner, I will do it. I have never 
tasted liquor.” 

“No more have I, Paul, and as we value our souls, we 
7nust not taste it.” 

“ I never will. I am bound by the most solemn pledges. 
My father exacted them from me before I went away to 
school, and I have kept them inviolate. Can you not 
trust me now, Abner ? ” 

“ Yes, Paul, I can, but I must tell you, as Eunice Poore 
told me, your time has not yet come. When some beau- 
tiful girl who has half won your heart asks you to drink 
v/ine with her, your firmness will be put to the test.” 

“ Were you tested in that way, Abner ? ” 

‘‘Yes, Paul, I was, and another fell, while I stood firm.*' 


71 


The Hidden Papers. 

‘‘So will I stand firm under all temptation. I must. I 
have everything at stake, and since Mr. Conrad and you 
have engaged to give me a place in your store, I have 
realized, more than ever before, that my success in life 
iepends upon myself ; and I ask God, every day, to make 
me worthy of your entire confidence.’^ 

“ I have never doubted your worthiness, Paul, but 1 
have seen so many ruined by the wine-cup, that I am 
anxious for every young man who has not proved his 
strength of principle and purpose. I promised Eunice, 
too, that I would warn you, and I chose to do it here. 
Now let us go.” 

So into the glad sunlight they went, closing the sagging 
door behind them, and turning their steps homeward. 

It had long been Paul Redfield’s ambition to go to the 
city with his old friend ; and now that he had attained his 
majority, this ambition was to be gratified. There, he en- 
tered heartily upon his chosen career, and for which he 
evinced such aptitude, that Mr. Conrad promised him 
speedy promotion. Two years passed quickly, bringing him 
more of success than he had dared to anticipate. He was 
the confidential clerk, and might hope, at no very distant 
day, to be admitted as partner in the firm of Conrad and 
Hanson. 

These years had also brought much of happiness to 
Abner Hanson. He was married to one every way 
worthy of him, as he was worthy of her. When they es- 
tablished their home, a younger sister of Mrs. Hanson 
came to reside with them, and there Paul Redfield met 
his fate. 

He was spending an evening with these friends, when 
his host was summoned to a dying man in one of the 


72 


The Old Tavern. 


worst quarters of the city. A wretched-looking woman 
had delivered the message and w^aited to act as guide. 

“ The man told me where to come for you and what tc 
say,” she answered in reply to Abner Hanson’s questions, 
and as nothing further could be elicited, he prepared to 
follow her. 

He had been in many loathsome places, but in none so 
loathsome as the low underground apartment to w^hich he 
was conducted. 

“He told me to stay out till you got through,” said the 
woman, as he groped his way to a heap of straw where 
lay Bill Martin 

“ It’s ’most up with me, and I sent for you,” whispered 
the dying man hoarsely. “I don’t want any preaching. 
I haint got time for it, and it won’t do any good. But 
you treated me like human, and I promised to remem- 
ber it. I’ve kept track of you, and a g(^d many other 
folks too. You married one of the Hurlburt girls, and 
Paul Redfield is going to marry the other. Aint that 
so?” 

“Yes,” was replied, and the speaker was too much 
astonisheci to say more. 

“ I’ve got the secret that keeps them from being rich. 
I’m the last one that knows it, and — Give me that tin 
cup, or I sha’n’t hold out to tell.” 

The cup was given and the contents drained; when 
after a short silence, the hoarse whisper was resumed. 

“ They are two of Larabee’s heirs, and there’s a big 
property waiting for papers to prove it. The papers are 
in the south room, in a cupboard in the panel-work next 
to the kitchen. I meant to get them, but I couldn’t. 1 
wanted Eunice to, and she wouldn’t. That’s what made 


73 


The Hidden Papers. 

me strike her. I was sorry I struck her so hard. She 
swore, on the Bible, she wouldn’t tell. Poor — Eunice — 
I’m going — going — gone.” 

Bill Martin was dead. With his last expiring breath, he 
confessed the secret he had so long guarded. 

Abner Hanson opened the door of the room, to find his 
guide cowering upon the threshold, and with a promise to 
attend to the burial of the dead man, he went to the near- 
est police station for needed assistance. The next day a 
grave was dug in the potter’s field, and the scarred face 
hidden forever from mortal sight. 

No one had suspected there was a cupboard in the pan-^l- 
work of the south room, but examination revealed it ; and 
there, in a tightly closed tin box, were the long missing 
papers. 

What wonder that a curse had rested upon the old 
tavern, and followed the family of the old landlord ! A 
cursed business had been transacted over the bar, and in 
the adjoining south room. 

Robbery and murder, §uch as hold the perpetrators 
amenable to law ! Robbery and murder, too, of which 
the law takes no cognizance 1 


I 



N 


• < 
u. 


FIFE AND DRUM 



< 

✓ 



A . 



% 


/ 


-k 


’■< 




k 


£ 





4 

I 


7 T 


* 


i 


1 





FIFE AND DRUM. 


CHAPTER I. 

DRIFTING. 

‘‘ Fife and Drum. There they go, floating down the 
river ; playing the very same tunes their grandfathers 
played before them. Always together, too, as their 
fathers were ; and it looks a little to me as though they 
were on the same track other ways too." 

As Grandfather Willey said this, the family came to 
the north hall-door, where they stood listening to the 
regular tap of a drum, accompanying a fife skillfully 
played. 

‘‘ Going down to Ray’s," remarked a young man half 
under his breath. ‘‘ There’s a city girl there, and Jim 
Terry thinks there never was anybody like her." 

“ Who is she, Will ? " 

“ Stephen Ray’s daughter, and they say her father is 
rich." 

“ May be he is. I knew him when he was a boy, and 
he was after money then. Folks thought he didn’t 
always keep truth on his side, but I never had enough 
dealings with him to know. There ! Jim and Joe are 
at it again. Yankee Doodle, with a good many varia- 
tions ; but you can’t miss the tune if you try ” ; and the 


78 


Fife and Drum. 

old man whistled an accompaniment, in which a dark* 
eyed, little maiden joined. 

“ Was that exactly right ? ” she asked, coming closer 
to her grandfather. 

“ Exactly,” was replied. There isn't a boy in town 
could do better. Don't find fault with the child,” he 
added, turning to her mother, with whom whistling girls 
found little favor. ‘‘The music is in her, and must 
come out. I remember when 1 thought the fife and 
drum the very grandest part of muster-day. The fifer 
and drummer looked larger to me than any of the offi- 
cers. They made good music too, for plain folks as we 
were then. The boys are going 'round the bend, now, 
to the tune of ^ The Girl I Left Behind Me.' ” 

“ They better play that when they are coming home,” 
said Will. 

‘‘ Can't do it, you know. They can drift down the 
river, but they must row back. It is easy drifting, but 
when it comes to rowing against the current, there is 
hard work to be done ; and a good many find it so hard, 
they give up trying.” 

“ And keep on drifting ? *' 

“ Yes, Lizzie, that is the way of it." 

“ I shouldn't like that way, and I sha'n't do it. I 
shall row, and go where I want to.” 

“ It will take all your strength, child, a good many 
times, so you won't have any left for whistling.” 

“ Then I won't whistle.” 

“Jim and Joe won't come back very early. They 
always stay late when they go to Ray's,” said Will Dow, 
who, for some reason, was greatly interested in the 
movements of these friends. 


79 


Fife and Drtmi. 

“ Better stay late there than in a worse place ; but 
Jim needs to be asleep in good season these days. He 
is earning big wages.** 

‘‘ The same as Joe, grandfather.’* 

“ Yes, but he don’t earn his money as easy as Joe 
does. He isn’t as strong. Their fathers were as nigh 
matched for strength as you could reckon, but Joe’s has 
got the advantage now. Jim has had the hardest 
time.” 

He has always been a good boy to his mother. I 
don’t know what she would have done, if he had been 
like his father.” 

‘‘You can’t tell what he will be twenty-five years 
from now. There is a good deal of father about him.” 

“ His father was different twenty-five years ago.” 

“To be sure he was. Levi Terry was as handsome 
a youngster as you’ll ever be likely to see. Smart and 
capable, too ; ready to do anybody a kindness, and just 
bewitching the girls. I don’t believe there was a girl in 
the county could said no to him, if he had asked her to 
be his wife.” 

“You couldn’t be sure of that, grandfather.” 

“ I know it. Girls are freaky things, but Levi Terry 
knew how to please a woman, and when he was married, 
1 don’t doubt there was a good many that envied his 
wife.” 

“ I don’t think any one envies her now. I met him 
last evening, and I wondered how he could ever have 
been thought a decent man. Jim was a little ways be- 
hind, keeping close watch of him.” 

“Jim has been after his father scores of times. I 
hope no one will need to go after him.” 


8o 


Fife and Drum. 

“ I hope not, grandfather. I never heard that Jim 
was likely to follow his father’s example.” 

‘‘ Neither have I, but he didn’t start fair; so you don’t 
know where he’ll fetch up. He is Levi Terry’s son, and 
the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children in a 
way that don’t seem hardly just ; ’though we know God 
never deals unjustly with His creatures. Joe Duncan’s 
father is a sober man, and there is where he has the ad- 
vantage of Jim.” 

‘‘That is a good deal, ’though Joe has always had to 
work his way.” 

“ I know it. Amos Duncan has had a good many pull- 
backs about getting property. Luck, as they call it, has 
gone against him. I always thought it made a difference 
with him, not having the woman he wanted for a wife, 
to begin with. He never let it break the friendship be- 
tween him and Levi Terry, but Anna Strong missed a 
good husband when she missed him. He is a kind man 
in his home, and he has got a ‘good wife. Hope’s long 
sickness cost him a sight of money, not to say anything 
about the watching and worry over her.” 

“ She will pay them for it all, father. Her mother 
says she couldn’t keep house without her. She isn’t as 
strong as the other girls are, but she has a wonderful 
faculty for planning and calculating. Joe hears to her 
in everything.” 

“ Even to going down to Ray’s.^” ^ 

“Yes, sir. She says she don’t expect to keep him 
tied to her all his life ; and perhaps that is the reason he 
stays with her so much.” 

“ I presume it is. She is a nice girl ; not much like 
her mother, but like what her father ought to have 


Fife and Drum. 8i 

been. He is gaining on himself now, and Joe will help 
him.” 

‘‘ Joe is a splendid fellow. People don’t know what 
there is in him yet. He hasn’t shown himself out.” 

Better not get his head too full of that city girl if he 
means to row his way up-stream with strong, steady 
strokes. It makes a difference who sits at the helm of 
the boat ; all the difference between one woman and 
another. When cool weather comes, that Ray girl will 
go home and forget the country boys she amused herself 
with this summer.” 

“ Country boys are as good as she is, grandfather.” 

“Better, perhaps, but homely goodness don’t count 
for much in some places.” 

“And in some places it counts for a good deal.” 

“ Certainly ; and for my part, I don’t care how home- 
ly the goodness is, if I am only sure of it.” 

“ Why not have goodness that looks pretty to every- 
body ! That is the kind I mean to have,” said Lizzie 
Dow. “ The minister told us, last Sunday, that real 
goodness is the most beautiful thing in the world. ; and 
real goodness is loving God with all your heart, and lov- 
ing your neighbor as yourself. I think I can love God 
that way, but I don’t want to love all my neighbors as 
well as I do myself.” 

“I don’t know what to make of that child,” remarked 
her mother, as she went whistling through the hall to 
the south door, from which could be seen the far-ofl 
mountains, whose tops seemed to pierce the very skies. 
“ Our ways here at home don’t suit her.” 

“Then let us suit our ways to her,” responded Will 


82 


Fife and Drum. 

She is the smartest girl I ever saw, if she is my sister 
1 think she and Hope Duncan are some alike.** 

“I think she has taken some of her notions from 
Hope Duncan. Hope’s long sickness has made hex 
different from other girls, and Lizzie always wanted to 
be with her.** 

“ Lizzie has learned a good deal at neighbor Duncan’s, 
and as long as she is good as she is now, you can afford 
to humor her notions. Children aint all run in the same 
mold, and it don’t pay to try to cut them over by the 
same pattern. Sometimes the best part is cut off in 
doing that.” 

“ The cutting hurts, too, grandfather.** 

“I know it. Will, ’though I didn’t use to think of 
that. I made some mistakes in trying to cut, and I 
want others to take warning by my experience. Fife 
and Drum are through for to-night. Will, do you wish 
you were down to Ray’s 1 ” asked the old man, abrupt- 
ly, when left alone with his grandson. 

“No, sir, I don’t,” was replied. “ If I am half a 
fool, I am not a whole one. I know better than to 
waste ammunition on game I never can hit.” 

“ I’m glad of it, my boy, and there’s another thing it’s 
well to remember : There’s a good deal that looks better 
at a distance than near to. Your father is just driving 
up, and he must be tired.” 

“ I can take care of his horse,’* said the young man, 
and hastened to perform this service. 

“ I am glad you are here,” remarked the farmer, cor- 
dially, as his son appeared. “I want to consult you 
about a trade that has been proposed to me.” 


Fife and Drnm. 83 

“Yes, sir,*' replied Will, quite forgetting the conver- 
sation in which he had just borne a part. 

“ It will make hard work for us, a year or two ; but if 
it turns out as it looks as though it might, it will give 
you and Lizzie a chance in the world, such as your 
mother and I never had," remarked Mr. Dow, after an 
hour’s consultation with the son, who was entirely in 
his confidence. 


CHAPTER II. 


STEERING. 

‘‘Hope, are you asleep?^* asked Joe Duncan, softly 
after listening for some minutes at the door of his sis 
ter*s chamber. 

“No; I have been lying awake, thinking,” she re- 
plied in the same guarded tone. “Wait until I have put 
on a wrapper; then come in, and we will have a good 
talk.” 

“ I am selfish to trouble you, but I knew I couldn’t 
sleep till I had talked off some of my feelings, or fancies ; 
I don’t know certainly which* they are, but I thought 
they were real feelings,” said the brother, later. 

“ I presume they are. We have a great many feelings 
which other people call fancies. My fancies are real to 
me.” 

“ Everything is real to you. I don’t know how any 
one of the family could live without you. I have been 
down to Ray’s.” 

“ I knew you had.” 

“ Jim Terry went with me, but the next time he goes, 
he will go without me. I can beat an accompaniment 
to him in some places, but not there. He is dead in 
love with Stephanie Ray.” 

Hope Duncan sat in the shadow, so that her brother 
did not see the flush upon her usually pale cheek ; and 
(84) 


Fife and Drmn. 85 

it was well, also, that a cloud passing over the moon 
made the shadow still deeper, to hide the emotion she 
could not repress- 

‘‘ Does she care for him ? was asked at length. 

‘‘ I don’t know. I think she does. At any rate, 1 
felt myself in the way this evening. Miss Alice Ray 
showed me some new engravings I am sure you would 
be delighted to see, but I was so stupid and inattentive, 
she must have thought me a fool. She thought right, 
too. I have been a fool.” 

‘‘No, Joe dear, you have not. You have had your 
feelings stirred; and some of your best feelings, too. 
You needn’t tell me any more about it. I have seen it 
all along.” 

‘‘ Have you seen it in Jim too } ” 

“I have not seen Jim as I see you, but whatever 
comes, we wish him to have all the happiness which can 
rightfully be his. We have always been good friends, 
and this must not break our friendship. You two have 
been Fife and Drum since you were able to beat a tattoo 
with drum-sticks.” 

“ We are going to continue good friends ; but Stephanie 
Ray won’t make him the wife he needs, even if she mar- 
ries him. He needs somebody strong and decided, to 
lean upon.” 

“ Don’t be unjust or ungenerous, Joe. Stephanie Ray 
is just as strong and decided as she was when you first 
met her.” 

“ I know she is, Hope ; but Jim and I are different in 
some things. He is all right ; handsome and good, and 
more, too ; but when it comes to ” 

‘‘ Helping his mother, he never fails,” said the sister, 


86 


Fife and Drum. 

completing her brother’s sentence. He has had a 
great deal to bear, and he has borne it bravely.” 

“ I know he has, and it is a rest to a fellow who works 
as hard as he does, and has only tired people ’round 
him, just to see a girl, looking as cool and comfortable 
as Stephanie Ray, in her pretty muslin dresses, looped 
up with ribbons and flowers. That is what makes half 
the charm for Jim and all the rest of us.” 

Hope Duncan made a note of this, and the next after- 
noon appeared in a dress which was so becoming, that her 
brother complimented her upon having grown suddenly 
handsome. 

‘‘ You and Lilia both look as nice and sweet as Ste- 
phanie Ray; sweeter, too,” he said. ‘‘Your hair is just 
lovely. Why didn’t you ever wear it in that way be- 
fore?” 

“ I don’t know that I ever thought of it before.” 

“ I hope you will think of it every day in future. Now 
persuade mother to wear pretty dresses, and we shall be 
quite a genteel family. It will make us all feel ten years 
younger.” 

“ Are you so old that you need ten years taken from 
your age? ” 

“I am older by ten years than I was last March.” 

“You are wiser, too.” 

“Am I? ” asked the young man, looking at his sister 
earnestly. 

“Yes, Joe dear, you are. I can see it in your face.” 

“ Thank you. You always help me. I know I have 
learned some lessons. Don’t let mother wear that old 
dark dress another afternoon. If she hasn’t any other I 
will give you the money to buy one. I will give you 


Fife a 7 id Drum. 87 

some money anyway. Here are five dollars to spend as 
you please/' 

“ Thank you. I was wishing I could earn five dol- 
lars, but it seems hardly right to take this from you.’' 

‘‘ It is right. I earned it for you. I expect to do ex- 
tra work a few weeks now, so you will see less of me, 
but I shall think of you all the more. Don’t offer any 
objections. I can do it without overtaxing myself. I 
have been drifting with the current ; now I must row 
against it, with you at the helm. So, sister mine, steer 
straight for some blessed haven ; and be sure that 
mother wears a pretty dress.” 

The next afternoon the seldom-used parlor was opened, 
the curtains looped back, and a work-stand placed by 
the north window. 

Now, mother, you are to take the large rocking- 
chair. I will occupy the small one, and Lilia may 
choose for herself,'' said Hope, almost gleefully. 

‘‘ I don't know what has come over you, that you 
wanted to sit in here this afternoon/' responded Mrs. 
Duncan, who, seated in a large, comfortable chair, looked 
quite unlike the poorly-dressed woman of yesterday. 

“ I was reading not long ago that wise people make 
the most of all their resources, and it occurred to me 
that this room is one of our resources,'' replied her 
daughter. 

I suppose it is, 'though we never use it enough to 
hardly pay for having it. I must say it is pleasant in 
here, away from all the work.'' 

“We are working here, mother,'' said Lilia, who was 
the very picture of contentment. “ I can sew a great 
deal better in here than in the corner bedroom, where 


88 


, Fife and Drum. 

everything is all tucked up and huddled together. I 
like plenty of elbow room, and I think we better sit in 
here every day; don’t you, mother? ” 

“ I don’t know. It would make another room to look 
after and keep clean.” 

“ Let us try it a week,” suggested Hope, and before 
a reply could be made, Joe appeared at the window by 
which she was sitting. 

I never knew before how comfortable we might be,” 
he remarked, looking around with evident satisfaction. 
“If we had some nice books on the tables and some 
pictures on the walls, this would be as pleasant as any- 
body’s parlor. But I am forgetting my errand. I came 
to tell you not to expect me home to supper. I shall 
work till ten o’clock, and perhaps later.” 

“Then can’t I carry your supper to you?” asked 
Lilia. 

“ I hope you can, and be sure to wear the dress you 
have on,” replied her brother. “ The sight of the dress 
will give an added relish to doughnuts and cheese. 
Don’t set up for me, Hope, and don’t worry if I am not 
in until morning. There is a job to be done, and if I 
am left to do it alone, it will take most of the night.” 

Joe is working too hard,” said Mrs. Duncan when 
he had gone. 

“ It won’t hurt him to work so for a little while. He 
is strong and well, and he wishes to earn what he can. 
We will send him a nice supper, mother.” 

“Yes, mother, let me have some of everything good 
in the house ; and please let me stay with him a * 
while. Jim Terry ought to help him, but he goes down 
to Ray’s almost every night and stays ever so late. 


89 


Fife and Drmn. 

Anna told me so, and she says her mother is sorry. 
Why, there is Miss, Alice Ray coming, this minute, with 
her cousin,”^ added Lilia in an excited tone. “lam 
real glad we are in the parlor.” 

Miss Alice Ray was several years older, and far more 
intelligent than her young cousin, who was intent only 
upon winning admiration and enjoying to the full what- 
ever of ease and luxury she could command. Coming 
into the “ real country ” was a new experience to her, 
and she intended to make the most of her opportunities. 
For want of more elegant admirers, she had smiled upon 
Jim Terry and Joe Duncan; at length giving a prefer- 
ence to the former. She had proposed a picnic, to 
which Miss Alice Ray had assented, and this afternoon 
call was made for the purpose of inviting the Duncans. 
As the call was necessarily short, its object was soon 
told. 

“ We wish to see all the young people in this part of 
the town,” said Miss Ray. “ We can depend upon you, 
Hope.” 

“ Thank you. I think you can.” 

“ And your brothers and sister. We want the very 
young people. You will come, Lilia? ” 

“ I will if I can. I never went to but one picnic, 
and that was just splendid..” 

“We will all try to have this just splendid. Good- 
afternoon. I have so many to see, that I must be in 
haste.” 

Joe Duncan received his supper in good season, and 
•witli it an invitation to Miss Ray’s picnic. 

“ Where is Jim ? ” soon asked Lilia. 

“ He has gone away,” was replied. 


t '■S-V - 


90 


Fife and Drum, 

Where ? Down to see Stephanie Ray ? ” persisted 
the child. 

Perhaps so. He didn^t tell me.” 

Our Hope is a good deal nicer and handsomer than 
that Ray girl ; and I think a good many queer things 
happen sometimes; don't you, Joe? ” 

I certainly do think so, Lilia ” ; and with this assent 
the topic of conversation was changed. ‘‘ Hope and 
Amos and you can go to the picnic, but I must work 
next Thursday. I will have my picnic in the fall, when 
nuts are ripe.” 

May I go with you ? ” 

Yes ; I shouldn’t expect good luck without you.” 

‘‘ And may I ask Lizzie Dow to go too ? ” 

Of course you may.” 

‘‘ And oh ! won’t we have a splendid time ! ” 

I think we will. At any rate, we will try for a win 
tePs supply of nuts.” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE PICNIC. 

“ Fane, what do you intend to do with Jim Terry 
Do with Jim Terry ! repeated Stephanie Ray in a 
tone expressive of the utmost astonishment. “ What 
do you mean, Cousin Alice ? He is nothing to me.’* 

“ Then why do you treat him as if he was everything 
to you ? If you are flirting with him, simply to amuse 
yourself, he ought to know it. He is in earnest. He 
loves you, and you are responsible for it. What will 
you do with him when you go back to your father? ** 

“ Leave him where I found him.^’ 

‘‘You can not do that. You have come into his life 
as a veritable part of it. Don’t you care at all for him. 
Fane ? If he was worth a million of dollars, how would 
it be then ? ” 

“ He would be perfectly splendid ; the most fascinat- 
ing young man it was ever my good fortune to meet ; 
but now I don’t want to think anything about it. I am 
having a nice time up here, while father has gone West, 
to look after his business. You introduced Jim Terry 
and Joe Duncan to me; and how did I know they 
worked in the big saw-mill like any two Irishmen. You 
ought to have told me.” 

“ They are not working like two Irishmen. They 

(91) 


'92 


Fife and Drum, 

work like two intelligent, energetic young men, who 
have their own way to make in the world, and are doing 
it honorably. Their hearts are made of too good mate- 
rial to be used as foot-balls for idle flirts/* 

‘‘You are cross to me, Cousin Alice. I don*t see 
what I have done that is so bad/* 

“I am vexed with you, Fane. Jim Terry ought not 
to spend so much time here.** 

“ Then let him stay away. I don*t oblige him to 
come.’* 

“ Don’t you wish him to come? Wouldn’t you miss 
him if he should stay away for a week, and wouldn’t 
you tell him, more perhaps by your looks and actions 
than by words, that the time had seemed very long ? ” 

“ I suppose I should. Cousin Alice, and it would be 
dreadfully dull here evenings without him, now I am 
used to his coming. I wish he was rich.” 

“ Then you do love him a little. Fane? ” 

“ I don’t know. He is going to be splendid-looking, 
and if he had a little more polish, there couldn’t any- 
body find fault with his manners.” 

“The polish can be easily acquired; but Jim is poor, 
and always will be, unless he has a wife to help him. 
Would you marry him and live as his wife ought to live ; 
helping him to his best and truest life ; working and 
economizing to make the most of a limited income ? 
Do you love him well enough for that, Fane ? ” 

“ I wouldn’t work and economize for anybody. I 
couldn’t do it. I don’t how to live without plenty of 
money to spend.” 

“You may be obliged to learn. Grandfather Ray 
used to say that money is a great convenience, but a 


93 ^ 


Fife and Drum. 

poor dependence. Promise me one thing,” added 
Alice Ray, after a silence her cousin did not seem dis- 
posed to break. “ Promise me not to monopolize Jim 
Terry at the picnic, unless you propose to marry him.” 

“ I never monopolize him. He is free to do as he 
pleases.” 

Stephanie Ray said this lightly, but she knew the 
young man was not free. He knew it too, and won- 
dered again and again if the fetters which bound him 
bound her also. He was going to the picnic, of course, 
and he urged Joe Duncan to go. 

‘‘What will a fife be without a drum .? ” he asked. 
“Itself, while the drum is only an accompaniment 
which can be well dispensed with.*'^ 

“ No, it can not. The drum gives volume and power 
to otherwise thin music. Come, Joe, you have been 
working as if on a wager for the last fortnight, and it is 
time you had some recreation. I don't believe you 
have beat a single tattoo.” 

“Amos does that, and he can beat an accompaniment 
for you at the picnic as well as I. My place is here. You 
won't mind, though, if I give you a word of advice ” 

“ No, Joe, I won't. It is likely I need it bad enough.'^ 
“Don't give yourself away, Jim, heart and soul, until 
you are reasonably sure the gift will be appreciated. ” 
For a moment the young man's eyes flashed with 
anger, but presently he answered : 

“ I understand you. I know all about it, and there 
are ten chances to one that I am making a fool of my- 
self; but it is too late to go back where I was last 
spring. I must go in and take what comes. I need to 
work more than you do, but I must go to that picnic.” 


94 


Fife and Drum, 

Most of the company who had been invited were on 
the ground in good season, ready to make the occasion 
as pleasant as possible. There was a drummer and a 
fifer; Lizzie Dow whistling in such time and tune as to 
add much to their efforts, and the three musicians ac- 
quitting themselves so well as to be voted “a first-class 
band.” 

Jim Terry devoted himself to the general entertain- 
ment, bestowing old-time attentions upon Hope Dun- 
can, who was looking so bright and pretty, her friends 
wondered they had not before known how handsome 
she was. Wherever she went she drew a crowd around 
her, and perhaps it was this which piqued her rival into 
an attempt to regain supremacy. 

She was only too successful, and when the day was 
over she sought to put aside the memory of words to 
which she had listened, with the memory of other words 
she had herself spoken, as one puts aside a rapturous 
dream, to be no more recalled. 

Not so her companion. He had not intended it, but 
the afternoon had sealed his destiny, and henceforth — 
what ? 

The next day his mother was stricken down with ill- 
ness, and he was too loyal to leave her. His father only 
drank more deeply, while the children depended entirely 
upon Brother Jim. 

Mrs. Duncan and Hope did what they could for their 
neighbors ; assisting in the care of the sick woman, who 
grew rapidly worse, until the time of her death. 

Her husband spent the last two days of her life at her 
bedside, filled with grief and remorse. Sometimes, 
when left alone together, the trembling voice of the wife 


95 


Fife a7td Drum, 

could be heard, praying for him she had loved through 
all the years of poverty and neglect, since they had stood, 
side by side, at the altar. 

If promises of reform were then made, no one save 
these two knew. Mrs. Terry had never talked of her 
husband’s habits ; not even with the son she trusted so 
implicitly, and to whom she now left her cares and re- 
sponsibilities. 

He could not realize that she was dead. Friends made 
preparations for the funeral ; he acquiescing in their 
plans without thought of dissent. His heart cried out 
for sympathy which one alone could give. The night 
before his mother was to be buried out of his sight, he 
loosed the boat from its moorings, and drifted down the 
river to the familiar landing-place. Here he found Miss 
Alice Ray, who greeted him with marked cordiality, 
inquiring kindly for his family, and expressing her sin- 
cere sympathy for them in their bereavement. 

I was a little lonely, and so I came down here,” she 
said at length. ‘‘Perhaps you don’t know that Fane 
has gone. She left her good-bye for you, with thanks for 
the pleasure you have given her this summer. Her 
father sent for her, and she went yesterday morning. 
He intends to return West, and she will go vyith him.” 

These last sentences were unheeded by the young 
man to whom they were addressed. He only knew that 
she whom he loved had gone, leaving him the most 
commonplace message. 

“ You are quite worn out, watching with your mother,’^ 
added his companion, who wished to save him needless 
pain. “You have grown thin and pale since I saw you. 
Come up to the house and rest.” 


96 


Fife and Drum, 


“ Thank you, but I must not,** replied the young man, 
with an effort at self-control, yet speaking in a strange, 
unnatural voice. ‘‘Are you sure your cousin left no 
note for me ? ** 

“ Quite sure,*’ was replied. “ I am afraid my cousin 
is a sad flirt, making new friends wherever she goes, and 
leaving old friends to their fate. She has been petted 
and indulged, until she seems to think admiration her 
due.** 

“ But, Miss Ray ’* 

“ Don’t say what you will wish unsaid, my friend. 
Forget the summer and Stephanie Ray.” 

James Terry stayed to hear no more. Seating him- 
self at the oars, he was soon on his way toward home. 
How he reached there he could not have told ; but once 
there, he locked himself into his room, refusing to be 
geen. 


CHAPTER IV. 


RESPONSIBILITIES. 

“Jim Terry looks as though he had been fighting for 
his life/’ remarked Hope Duncan to her brother the next 
morning. 

He went down to Ray’s last evening, and I suppose 
he was disappointed in not finding Stephanie Ray there. 
I could have told him she was gone, and for his sake I 
am glad she is. She had only a few hours* notice. 
Somebody who pretends to know says Jim offered him- 
self to her the afternoon of the picnic, and she accepted 
him.” 

‘‘ Do you believe it ? ” 

“ I neither believe nor disbelieve ; but if it is true, she 
must have given him encouragement, or he would never 
have committed himself. A downright refusal would 
mortify him terribly.” 

“We will hope for the best, Joe. He has enough to 
bear at home, and we must help him. His father is 
likely to be a great burden, and his brothers will require 
all the care he can give them. Anna will do her best ; 
and she is a good, capable girl ; but it is impossible for 
her to fill her mother’s place.” 

None felt this more than the young girl herself, who, 
while grieving for the loss of her best earthly friend, 
looked forward to the future with many sad forebodings. 

(97) 


98 Fife and Drum. 

How they were to live was a problem she could not solve. 
Poor and scant as had been the comforts of their home, 
these comforts must necessarily be less. 

The funeral of Mrs. Terry was attended by a large 
number of people who thus testified their respect for 
one who had been a true friend and a consistent Chris** 
tian. Amos Duncan and his family occupied seats with 
the mourners, and it was observed that he lingered a 
little when taking the last look of the woman who had 
chosen other love than his, and who had died before 
her time, because of disappointment and hardship. 

Even then, Levi Terry watched him closely, and as 
he turned away, their eyes met, each reading the other’s 
thoughts, and going back to the old days when they 
were rivals in love. 

The funeral over, Jim returned to his work. His 
father, too, worked, abstaining from the use of all intox- 
icating drinks, and spending his leisure time with his 
family. 

He went out, however, one evening, and not return- 
ing, his son went in search of him. No one could give 
any account of him in the village ; but he had been 
seen, just at dark, walking by the river. The night was 
spent in fruitless efforts to find him, and the next morn- 
ing his body was discovered in the water. Whether 
drowned by accident, or intention, could not be known ; 
yet it was a significant fact, that not many days after, a 
party of boys found an empty whisky flask near the 
^ -ace where he was last seen. He was buried by the 
><ide of his wife, and except that his children were thus 
relieved of a constant anxiety in regard to him, his 
death made no change with them. 


99 


Fife and Drum. 

I don’t know what to do with the boys,” said Jim 
Terry to his friend, Joe Duncan. “ They need a steady 
hand and steady work. I wish your father would take 
them, and if they don’t pay their way, I will make up 
what is lacking.” 

“You must keep the boys yourself, Jim. You need 
them and they need you. They have confidence in 
you, and you can do more for them than any one else. 
They are good boys, and if you can keep them from 
getting a taste of liquor, they will be all right. Above 
all, keep a sharp eye on Eben.” 

“ I know all about it, Joe, and that is why I wish 
your father would take them. Hope can wind them 
’round her finger. They think she is the best and 
handsomest girl in the world, and Anna just worships 
her. She can do ten times as much for them as I can. 
But I am selfish. I have no right to ask it of her. It 
seems to me, sometimes, I have no right to ask anything 
of anybody, now mother is gone. She did the best she 
could for us, although I used to think, if she would talk 
to me frankly about father, it would be easier for us 
both.” 

“ It would probably have been harder for her ; and 
now it is all over, it will make no difference with you.” 

“ I wish I was sure that it is all over, Joe. I wish I 
was sure that when father died, his habits died with 
him.” 

“ What do you mean, Jim ” 

“ Don’t ask me. Perhaps I don’t know exactly what 
I mean. But promise me one thing ; if you see me 
going wrong, reach out your hand to save me. Don’t 
give me up.” 


lOO 


Fife and Drum. 

‘‘ I promise/' replied Joe Duncan, looking stiaight 
into the eyes of his friend. Come what may, you may 
count on me to the end. But, Jim, you must not go 
wrong. Think how much depends upon you." 

“ I know it all.” 

“And you will govern yourself accordingly. You are 
tired and disheartened now, but time brings rest and 
blunts the edge of sorrow. You have the consolation 
of knowing that you did your duty by your parents.” 

“ I intended to do it, but I am afraid I have neglected 
mother this summer. There is hot blood in my veins, 
Joe." 

“ Good, healthy blood, Jim, and you are wise enough 
to keep it so." 

“ I am not so wise as I ought to be. I need to learn 
many lessons before I can lay claim to wisdom.” 

The name of Stephanie Ray had not been mentioned, 
but Joe Duncan well knew that her abrupt departure 
had much to do with his friend’s unhappiness. Hope, 
too, saw it all, grieving that she could not comfort him, 
even while putting away her own fondly cherished 
hopes. Anna Terry came to her often for advice, and 
often was her skill called in requisition to make the 
most of unpromising materials. 

“ It’s my opinion they couldn’t keep soul and body 
together, in the old house, if it wasn’t for the Duncans,” 
remarked Grandfather Willey, as he listened again to 
the fife and drum. “ That sounds more cheery than 
anything I’ve heard before from Jim since his mother 
died. It didn’t do him any good having that Ray giil 
’round, this summer, and I hope we’ve seen the last of 
her. But folks mistrust her father has got into trouble 


lOI 


Fife and Drum. 

about some property he had the management of, that 
belonged to somebody else. If he has, he’ll come back 
to his brother for help, and maybe take his daughter 
here for a home.” 

“ I hope she won’t ever come this way again,” said 
Lizzie Dow, turning to her brother, who was standing 
near. “ I don’t like her. I heard her tell her cousin, 
the day of the picnic, that all of us girls were dreadfully 
countrified. I wanted to tell her that we know as 
much as she does, if we don’t smile and simper, and 
make big eyes one minute, and the next look shy as a 
bird. Now, grandfather, don’t scold me for that. I 
have been wanting to say it this ever so long. Anna 
Terry says Stephanie Ray just turned the heads of all 
the young men and boys within ten miles.” 

“What do you think of that, W ill ” asked grand- 
father. 

“ I think there are some level heads yet, and I think, 
too, there are some pretty girls within ten miles.”, 

“Prettier than Stephanie Ray,” responded Lizzie. 
“ Hope Duncan is a thousand times prettier. She wears 
just lovely dresses, and looks ^as though she was going 
to a party every afternoon. So does Lilia, too, and 
they sit in the parlor with the windows open, so it seems 
like visiting. Why couldn’t we sit in our parlor.^ ’ 

Mrs. Dow was about to answer this question, when 
a warning glance from her father arrested the words 
upon her lips. 

“ I suppose we could, but the sun would fade the car- 
pet, and there would be another room to take care of,” 
she replied. 


102 


Fife and Drum, 

“ I will buy another carpet when I grow up, and Will 
and I can do all the extra work.’’ 

‘‘ How will you buy the carpet? ” 

Perhaps I shall whistle for it, and to-morrow, Will, 
we will see what we can make of our cold, dark, north- 
west room. If we were rich we could have a piano and 
an organ in it, and I don’t know as I should care for 
£^.nything else, except piles and piles of music.” 


CHAPTER V. 


THE LEGACY. 

** If it had only come while Mrs. Terry was alive, 
what a blessing it would have been,*' was said over and 
over again, when it was known that, by the death of a 
distant relative, she or her heirs were entitled to a leg- 
acy of several thousand dollars. 

In due time this legacy was paid to her children ; 
when Mr. Duncan consented to accept the guardian- 
ship of those who were under age. Arrangements were 
made by which Anna and George could attend school, 
while Eben, who from the first had been a source of 
anxiety, felt a new restraint upon his conduct. 

“ You must hold Eben,’* said Joe Duncan to his sister. 
‘‘It is the worst thing in the woild for him to feel that 
he has money, and I am not sure but it would have 
been better for them all to keep on in the old way. Jim 
has not forgotten Stephanie Ray. He never speaks of 
her, but I can see that he thinks of her, and now her 
father is in disgrace, it may be she will think it worth 
her while to win him back. ” 

‘‘And would Jim’ overlook a year of silence and 
neglect ? ** 

“ I presume he would. As he says, there is hot blood 
in his veins, and she has stirred it. She was a new rev- 
elation to him, and she flattered him by her preference. 

(103) 


104 


Fife and Drum, 

I understand it, but I was cured of all that folly long 
ago. There is no need of my going away from home to 
find pleasant rooms or pleasant company. We are bel- 
ter off to-day than we ever were before.'* 

But you are putting all your earnings into the fam- 
ily purse, and that does not seem quite right/' replied 
Hope. 

It is right. There will be time enough for me to 
work for myself. You give all your strength to the 
family; why should not I But there comes Eben 
Terry. Something has gone wrong with him, I know 
by his looks. I will go and leave him to you." 

“ What is it } " asked the young lady, smilingly. 

“Jim is making a fool of himself/' was the emphatic 
response. ‘‘ I don't suppose you can do anything about 
it, but it seemed to me I should feel better after I told 
you of it. That Ray girl is at her uncle's, and Jim has 
gone down there. I think she sent for him, and I wish 
she was a thousand miles off. She isn't half good 
enough for him, and if he marries her she will just drag 
him down till he gets so discouraged he won't care 
what he does. It is the money she wants, and likely 
she thinks Jim is rich. If he was poor as he used to be, 
she wouldn't have him, and I hope she won't anyway. 
If she does, good-bye to Jim." 

“ Oh, no, Eben! we can not afford to do that. Jim 
is too good to be spoiled." 

“ I hope he is, and I wish I was, but I am not so sure 
of myself. One thing, though, I shall keep my promise 
to you." 

“ I hope you will. There is your weak point, and you 
will find plenty of people ready to take advantage of it." 


Fife and Drum. 105 

“ I know all about it, and the worst of it is, I am my 
father’s own son. But I think Jim needs a guardian as 
much as I do. He is a fool to go after that Ray girl. 
I saw enough of her ut the picnic last year, and, to my 
eyes, she was the homeliest girl there was there.” 

Stephanie Ray had come to her uncle’s quietly; so 
quietly that in the ordinary course of events, Jim Terry 
might not have known it for several days. 

“ You must not speak unkindly of Jim. Think of all 
he has done for you.” 

‘‘ I don’t mean to say anything unkind of him,” re- 
sponded the boy, whose heart was melted by the 
thought of all his brother’s kindness. “ I am ready to 
do anything to help him, and when he gets married I 
want him to have a dear, good wife who will, love him 
and keep him in the right track. I wish you would 
talk to him the same as you do to me, and tell him what 
he ought to do. That Ray girl thinks he has got money, 
and I shouldn’t wonder if she thinks he is good-looking.” 

“ If she does, she thinks rightly.” 

“ I know it. He is a good deal better-looking than 
she is; but that wouldn’t do any hurt, if she was the 
right one for him. He ought to have such a woman as 
you are for a wife. You would keep him right up to the 
very best there is in him, and that is good enough for 
anybody. When our house was bought I thought we 
were all sure of a home there, but nobody knows what 
may happen now. It is my opinion that Stephanie Ray’s 
father has lost his money, and she don’t know what to 
do with herself, except to hang on to Jim. She won’t 
want to live in this little town, but he ought to be wher« 
we can look after him.” 


io6 Drum, 

Eben Terry was right in his opinion of Stephen Ray 
Having ap*pealed in vain to his brother for assistance, 
he made haste to put the width of the continent between 
him and those he had wTonged, leaving his daughter tc 
seek the only friends upon whom she dared to presume. 

“ I told you how it would he” said Grandfather Wil- 
ley. “ That girl was a dead weight on her father, and 
he was glad to get rid of her. If I can see straight, he 
has come to the end of his rope, and folks ’round here 
won’t know much more about him. He was deceitful 
and dishonest when he was a boy, and it wouldn’t be 
strange if his daughter is like him. If she is, she can 
make Jim Terry do anything she wants him to, and he 
never know but she is an angel of light.” 

Having once warned the young man in regard to her 
cousin, Miss Alice Ray could do no more. It was sooti 
known that there was an engagement of marriage between 
them ; and few were surprised when the bridegroom elect 
proposed to establish himself in business in a flourishing 
town fifty miles distant. 

This broke up the old home. The house was rented, 
and the other members of the family were to find shelter 
at Mr. Duncan’s, where some rooms, recently added to 
the house, were fitted up for their accommodation. 

‘‘ When I have a home of my own, you will all have a 
home with me,” said Jim Terry to his sister, who clung 
to him, sobbing, the night before they separated. ‘‘We 
shall see each other often ; and if you need me, I can 
come to you at any hour. I do not love you less be- 
cause I love another. You are not losing me, Anna 
dear ; I shall be the same brother to you I have always 
been.” 


107 


Fife and Drum. 

For answer to this Anna made no reply, save by a 
closer clasping of her arras around his neck. She did 
not detain him long ; but she gazed after him, as if taking 
her last look of one who was going from her forever. 

She confided her sorrows to Hope Duncan, who bade 
her look on the bright side ; expecting the best, rather 
than the w6rst. 

‘‘But there is no best,'' replied the young girl. “Jim 
has changed already. Mother was a Christian, and she 
taught us to reverence holy things, but Fane Ray ridi- 
cules them. Jim is just infatuated with her, although it 
seems to me, sometimes, he wishes he had never seen 
her. I wish we had never had a cent of money left to* 
us. It was better for us to be poor and work hard. 
Jim needs hard work, and we need him.” 

There are three of you, Anna. George and Eben 
are good brothers.” 

“ I know they are, and I love them ; but neither of 
them can ever take Jim's place with me.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


A MISTAKE. 

He was James Terry now; with a new life opening 
before him. His handsome face, fine figure, and real 
kindness of heart, which gave an unstudied grace to his 
manners, soon won for him hosts of friends. The prin- 
ciples and practices his mother had taught him gave 
him a sure place in the confidence of those with whom 
he transacted business. 

He learned more of life; more of his own needs, and 
more of what constitutes true nobility of character. 
Others smiled upon him as sweetly as had Stephanie 
Ray; others, too, whom he knew to be her superiors. 
Yet, among them all — as he confessed to himself — there 
was not one beside whom Hope Duncan might not stand, 
an equal. 

‘‘ Hope is just splendid,” exclaimed Lizzie Dow, on 
returning from an afternoon spent in the pleasant parlor 
which seemed, every day, to receive some added touch 
of elegance. Anna Terry means to be like her, and if 
I could live with her all the time, I know I should be 
better than I am now. She is always doing something 
pretty; and when she talks religion, it is almost like 
talking poetry. I wish she would marry Will, so I could 
have her for a sister. Then I should like to have them 
live in a house all by themselves, so I could see Hope 
(io8) 


’ Fife and Dr tint. 109 

begin and make something out of nothing. That is more 
than Fane Ray can do.” 

More than Hope Duncan can do, either, child. 
She must have something to begin with.” 

Well, yes, grandfather, I suppose she must, but Fane 
Ray don't even know how to do common work. Isn’t 
that a pity ” 

Miss Alice Ray considered it so, and endeavored to 
impress her cousin with the same feeling ; but the girl 
was too indolent and selfish to change her habits ; while 
she complained of the unkindness of those upon whom 
she was dependent. She knew nothing of her father, 
whose disgrace had been made public, and who would 
find it for his interest to remain at a distance from fa- 
miliar scenes. She wished to be married, in order that 
she might feel more at liberty to do as she pleased. 

‘‘ I believe Jim more than half repents of his engage- 
ment with Stephanie Ray,” said Joe Duncan to his 
sister, after a visit, in which the young men had been 
much together, entertaining themselves and their neigh- 
bors with the music of old times. “ If I am not mis- 
taken, he has discovered that she can be very exacting 
and very disagreeable. I know it has been a rest to 
him to be here. Anna has made it as pleasant as she 
could for him, and he has appreciated her efforts. He 
has my sympathy, as he will have my assistance, if he 
ever needs it. He is doing very well in his business.” 

Eben is doing well too. He has changed wonder- 
fully in the last two years-” 

“ He has. He seems hardly like the same person he 
was when his mother died, and he says he owes it all to 
you. If he and I make our plans work, we shall star! 


I lO 


Fife and Drum. 

up a business here that will pay good profits j.fter we 
get fairly going. He will furnish most of the capital, 
but I shall do my part in some way.” 

‘‘ You would have more capital, if you spent less for 
the rest of the family,” was replied. 

“ I know about that, Hope, and I know that every 
dollar I have spent here, at home, has proved a good 
investment. Father is doing remarkably well for him, 
and mother looks ten years younger than she used to. 
Amos and Lilia shall have a good education, and you 
shall have everything you want, that I can buy for you. 
I hope you will not leave us for many a year.” 

“There is no danger of it, Joe dear. I think I fit 
the place where I am better than I should fit any other 
place.” 

“ You would fit and grace any place where you were 
appreciated. I have a great admiration for my sister 
Hope.” 

“ It is one of the perversities of human nature that 
Jarnes Terry should prefer my trifling Cousin Fane to 
lovely Hope Duncan,” soliloquized Miss Alice Ray at 
the close of a day of unusual vexation with this same 
cousin. 

It was useless to remonstrate with her ; worse than 
useless to attempt to impress her with a sense of the 
responsibilities she was about to assume. 

There was a quiet wedding, at which only the imme- 
diate relatives of the parties were present, and the 
newly-wedded pair started on a short wedding tour. 
They were to board for the present, which was sufficient 
reason for not inviting their friends to visit them in a 
familiar way. 


1 1 1 


Fife and Drum. 

Months went by, and still the bride refused to enter- 
tain the idea of housekeeping, unless she could have 
plenty of servants to answer every requirement She 
reproached her husband bitterly, whenever he proposed 
establishing such a home as they could afford. 

I am not a rich man,” he said, one day, when the 
matter was under consideration. ‘‘All the capital I 
have is invested in my business ; and if I am to suc- 
ceed, I must, for a few years, add a large share of my 
profits to my working capital. In order to do that, it 
will be necessary to practice some economy. You can 
see that for yourself, my dear.” 

“ I see nothing about business. I don’t know any- 
thing about it, and I don’t want to,” replied the wife 
petulantly. “ I don’t know anything about economy 
either. You knew. I didn’t when you married me. If 
you had wanted a kitchen drudge for a wife, you should 
have married somebody else. I thought you loved 
me ” ; and then came the tears, which are always a 
weak woman’s strongest appeal, and which closed the 
discussion. 

Her calls for money were frequent, and if not grati- 
fied, her ill-temper made her husband ready to purchase 
peace at almost any price. Miss Alice Ray saw some- 
thing of this and resolved to speak plainly. When told 
by her cousin of the past, when neither work nor econ- 
omy was necessary, she answered : 

‘‘ It was necessary. Both you and your father lived 
upon the property of others. He is a fugitive from 
justice on account of his dishonesty. These are hard 
things to say to you, but it is time some one told you 
the truth. You have a good husband, but he is by no 


II2 


Fife and Drum, 

means a rich man. You can help him, or you can ruin 
him ; and if you go on, as you have begun, it will be 
ruin for both of you. Tears count for very little,*’ con- 
tinued the speaker, foreseeing the shower about to fall. 

Your husband needs and deserves a pleasant home, 
where he will meet a smiling welcome, and where his 
wife will make the most of what he provides.” 

Has he been complaining of me } ” asked Fane 
Terry with sudden animation. 

“ Not one word,” was replied. ‘‘ He is too loyal and 
true for that, but any one can see that you are not doing 
as you should. Your husband was a home boy, living 
close to his mother, and it was natural that when he 
married he should expect something of home happi- 
ness.” 

He had no right to expect me to do as his mother 
did. She was just a kitchen drudge.” 

Don’t say that to James Terry, Fane. Don’t call 
his mother by any such name in his presence. She was 
a noble woman ; handsomer and more sought after 
when she was young than any other girl about here. 
Your father was one of the many who wished to marry 
her, and she refused him. If you are ever half as good 
and capable as she was, your husband will have cause 
for thankfulness.” 

^‘My father was a good deal better than the old 
drunkard who was her husband.” 

“ That would be a matter of opinion, and is not to be 
considered now. There are other considerations which 
affect you more nearly. Your husband has a sister you 
have treated with the utmost indifference.” 

“ Why shouldn’t I ? I didn’t marry the whole fami 


Fife and Drum. 


113 


ly. I want my husband to myself. I don’t like i^nna 
Terry any better than she likes me. I have heard too 
much about her and that other paragon, Hope Duncan 
James ought to have married her.” 

“ It would have been better for him if he had,” re- 
sponded Miss Ray, provoked to say what she knew she 
might afterward regret. 



N 


r/v' 





CHAPTER VII, 

GOING WRONG. 

James Terry was going wrong, although few had 
taken note of it. His wife thought him improving, be- 
cause he no longer talked of housekeeping, and said lit- 
tle of her extravagance. 

Yet it was true that he was going wrong. Thrown 
into the society of men less scrupulous than himself, he 
was fast losing the very characteristics which had 
recommended him to their favor. 

For this his wife was largely responsible. When they 
were first married she attended church with him, but 
after a time she declined going, and he soon idled away 
the Sabbaths with her. She ridiculed him as old-fash- 
ioned and Puritanical in his notions, yet in a certain 
way she was proud and fond of him. Sometimes, when 
seeming to realize the possibility of losing his affection, 
she appealed to him as she had in the early days of their 
acquaintance. She still had power to charm him, even 
while he missed more and more the inspiring influence 
a noble woman would have exerted over him. 

He was not living at his best, as he well knew, and as 
he felt most keenly when with his sister and brothers. 

‘‘I wish I had stayed here with you,** he said to Joe 
Duncan during one of his short visits. ‘‘ It would have 
been better for me in every way. You and Eben are 
(1 14) 


Fife and Drum. 1 1 5 

building up an independent business, while I am more 
or less dependent upon the caprices of the public. 
Eben is turning out a splendid man. I knew the place 
for him was in your family, and I hope you will con- 
clude to adopt him for life.*' 

“ He seems like one of the family now,'' was replied. 

He has a wonderful care for Anna and George. He 
is very ambitious for them too, and if necessary, he 
would work hard to meet their school expenses." 

“Four years have made a great change in him. I 
can hardly realize that it is four years since I left you. 
The time has passed quickly." 

“And happily too, I hope." 

“ I have no reason to complain. I fancy a boy's 
imagination colors life a little too brightly, so that few 
men realize all they have anticipated." 

“That may be true, Jim, but we here expect every 
year to bring us some new happiness. Father and 
mother are renewing their youth, while Hope and I are 
doing some studying to make up for the deficiencies of 
our early education." 

“ I have never seen any deficiencies in either of you, 
but your library would tempt any one to study." 

“ We have only made a beginning in the way of a li- 
brary. We intend to add to it from time to time, and 
so keep ourselves young by keeping our brains active.'^ 

“ Haven’t you any plans apart from this home, Joe.^ " 

“ Not any," answered the young man quickly. “ Hope 
and I consider ourselves fixtures, and make our plans 
accordingly." 

“ Fixtures in a good place. The whole town is look- 
ing up. I met Grandfather Willey to- day, and he told 


1 1 6 and Drum. 

me that Mr. Dow has made two or three thousand dol 
lars, so that he can do very well by his children.” 

‘‘And he might have told you that Lizzie Dow is a re- 
markably brfght girl. You remember how she used to 
whistle an accompaniment to fife and drum } ” 

‘‘ I do remember it, and I wish I could hear her whistle 
again. It is a long time since I have seen my fife, but 
I think I could manage to make my part of the noise.” 

‘‘We might have a musical evening, Jim, and invite 
the Dows over here. Grandfather Willey would want 
to come too. He says he has listened a good many 
times to our playing as we drifted down the river. 
Come over to-morrow evening with your wife and Miss 
Ray, and I will make sure of the Dows.” 

“ Thank you, Joe, I can promise for only one, but you 
will be sure to see me- I can’t think of anything that 
would give me more pleasure than such an evening.” 

James Terry’s wife was quite resolved that he shouW 
forego the anticipated pleasure, refusing to accompany 
him ; yet he redeemed his promise, making also an en- 
gagement for the next evening at the Dows’. 

The north-west room contained not only a piano and 
organ, with a sufficient quantity of music to satisfy any 
reasonable young lady, but it was otherwise handsomely 
furnished. Lizzie could whistle and play at the same 
time ; and with the fife at her side, while the tap of the 
drum was heard on the piazza, the entertainment was 
as enjoyable as it was unique. ^ 

“This seems like old times, with an added zest,” re- 
marked James Terry. “I must acknowledge that the 
children are growing away from me. They no longei 
need Brother Jim’s advice and assistance.” 


Fife and Drum. 117 

Children will grow up, and we older ones must ac- 
cept the situation,” replied Joe Duncan. “But there is 
no reason for worrying about it; and besides, I am ex- 
pecting good rather than evil. Twenty-eight is not a 
very advanced age, Jim.” 

“ That is true, but some years count double. Anna 
you have made excellent progress in your music,” he 
added, turning to his sister, who came toward him. 

“ I am glad if you think so,” she answered. “ I have 
tried to do as well as I could, but I have not such a 
gift as Lizzie Dow. The music teacher says she is the 
best scholar he ever had. I believe she knows it all by 
intuition, while I work hard for all I learn. I hoped 
you would be satisfied with what I have done. I always 
think of you and try to do what will please you.” 

“You always please me, little sister.” 

“ I hope I always shall. It is so delightful to have 
you with us. I grudge every moment as it flies. I wish 
you would come oftener and stay longer.” 

“ I wish I could. I should like to stay with you all 
summer, but I must go back to my business.” 

“You won’t forget mother and what she taught you, 
will you .? ” said the sister, tenderly. “ Don’t forget,” 
she added, still more tenderly, when no reply was made. 
“ She prayed for us all, but most for you, Jim, because 
you were her brave, good boy.” 

Here they were interrupted, and later there was only 
time for hasty good-nights. There was a stormy scene 
when James Terry returned to his Vv^ife at her uncle’s. 
Having absolutely refused to go with him to the Dows’, 
she had expected to keep him with her ; and having 
failed in this, she had spent the evening in her chamber, 


1 1 8 Fife and Drum. 

angry and mortified, becoming more excited as the time 
went by, until she was in one of her worst moods. In 
the morning they left, with but sorry explanation for 
their sudden departure, which, however, could not fail 
to be understood by those whose guests they were. 

Not long after this a club-room was established near 
James Terry’s place of business, and he was invited to 
share in its privileges. Once he would not have done 
it. Even then, a loving hand could have restrained 
him ; but the loving hand was not extended. He was 
glad of some resort where his social nature would be 
recognized; and so long as he did not go back to his 
native town for friends and companionship, I is wife 
saw no reason to interfere. 


CHAPTER VIII, 


A FOREGONE CONCLUSION. 

Another addition had been made to the Duncan 
house; ‘‘broadening and heightening it,” as the neigh- 
bors said. The two families occupying it seemed suffi- 
cient unto themselves, although they exercised a gener- 
ous hospitality to friends both far and near. 

After Joe Duncan and Eben Terry commenced busi- 
ness together, they soon established a reputation for 
promptness- and fair dealing which was a fortune in 
itself. Their younger brothers were employed by them, 
and they had already made plans for greatly extending 
operations. 

Two families in one, they had few separate interests ; 
while over all, Hope Duncan was the presiding genius, 
to whom were confided the hopes and fears of those 
who, whatever else might claim their attention, regarded 
her happiness with the most tender solicitude. 

James Terry had gone further away from them. 
Having received an advantageous offer to join a busi- 
ness firm in a large city, he had accepted it without 
consulting the friends who were now watching him 
eagerly. 

“ I wish Fane Ray had never come within a thousand 
miles of Jim,” exclaimed Eben. “ She will be the luin 
of him.” 


120 


Fife and Drtim. 

‘‘ She can not ruin him if he stands up firmly for the 
right, as a Christian man should,” responded Jce Dun- 
can. “ A man may be hampered, hindered, and made 
poor by others ; but so long as he retains his own in- 
tegrity, with a clear conscience before God, he can not 
be ruined.” 

But all men are not like you, Joe; and when a 
man’s foes are those of his own household, he must be 
very strong to stand against them. I am sure I could 
not have done it, if I had established my household 
when I was of Jim’s age. I need somebody to restrain 
and help me. I think I will take Anna with me on my 
next business trip and call to see Jim.” 

I am sure he will be glad to see you. His heart is 
in the right place, and we are not going to give him up 
because he does not live with us. Jim can not be dearer 
to you than he is to me, and we will hold him fast.” 

Eben stopped, with his sister, at the same hotel where 
his brother was boarding ; and when they met, Mrs. 
Terry was compelled to acknowledge that her sister-in- 
law was an elegant young lady, whom it was desirable 
to treat with becoming civility. 

‘‘ Little sister,” said her brother, as she sprang to 
meet him, ‘‘ I am glad you came with Eben. Now we 
shall claim a long visit from you, and we will live over 
some of the old days. You are looking remarkably 
well. I have been expecting an invitation to your wed- 
ding, although it seems only a short time since you were 
a child, running to meet me when I went home. You 
look like mother.” 

‘‘ I hope I shall be like her. She was so good, and 
loved us so much, I think nobody could be better.” 


I2I 


Fife and Driim. 

While the brother and sister were thus engaged with 
each other, Eben Terry was talking with his brother’s 
wife, who seemed to him less attractive than ever before. 
She was expensively dressed ; but dress could not make 
up for the deficiencies of face and figure which were 
only too apparent. 

She had never liked her companion, yet she had suffi- 
cient tact to know that it might be for her interest to 
maintain friendly relations with him. He was recog- 
nized as a rising man, and received the consideration 
which was his due. She claimed his escort to dinner, 
while her husband took in his sister. 

There was wine upon the table, and as the eyes of 
the brothers met, there was no need of words to express 
their thoughts. It was left untasted by the family party, 
but Anna was reasonably certain that one, at least, after- 
ward indulged in some stimulant. 

Her brother was kind and attentive, yet she could 
not fail to see a marked change in his appearance. He 
looked more like his father, and was more restless than 
formerly. 

I am afraid Jim drinks wine,” she said to her 
younger brother, in a faltering voice ; as though it cost 
her an effort to speak of it. I am afraid he and Fane 
both drink,” she added. 

“ I am afraid they do,” was replied. 

How can he do it ! How can he, when he knows 
about father ! Mother never thought of anything so 
dreadful. Why didn’t she get him to promise never to 
touch a drop of liquor ! He wouldn’t have broken his 
promise. I know he wouldn’t. I wish we could take 
him home with us. It can’t be too late to save him. F 


122 Fif^ Drum. 

would go down on my knees to him if it would do any 
good/’ 

I will see w^hat can be done,” answered Eben, seek- 
ing to reassure his sister by a feigned cheerfulness ; and 
in an interview a few hours after, when they were com- 
paring notes, the younger brother said abruptly : 

Jim, I want you to sign a pledge of total abstinence 
from all kinds of intoxicating liquor. I wonder mother 
didn’t exact such a pledge from every one of us. She 
must have known that children of such a drunkard as 
father was could never drink moderately. Perhaps 
some men can do it, but it is a foregone conclusion that 
we can notT 

‘‘ Why is it a foregone conclusion ? ” was asked with 
some hesitation. 

“ Because we have a drunkard’s blood in our veins,” 
was replied. “ I wouldn’t trust myself to drink so much 
as a glass of wine. How do I know but the demon in 
me — it is there, Jim, and it is of no use to deny it — 
would be roused from his sleep by the very first glass } 
I never have tasted a drop, and so long as I have my 
senses, I never will. Would you dare to do it, Jim } 
Would you } ” persisted the questioner. 

‘‘ I have done it, and I am not a drunkard,” answered 
James Terry, looking away from his brother as he made 
this confession. 

‘‘ Are you in the habit of drinking wine 1 ” asked 
Eben, 

I drink a little occasionally; not enough to injure 
me. Every one here drinks for good-fellowship.” 

'‘And you dare to do it with your father’s blood in 
your veins ! How can you ! You told me once that if 


123 


Fife and Dj^um, 

I ever drank liquor of any kind, I should do it at the 
peril of soul and body ; and when Hope Duncan asked 
me to pledge myself, I remembered your words, and 
they had their influence. Jim, you were the hero of my 
boyhood. I thought you the grandest brother in the 
world. I loved you then, and I love you now. We all 
love you. You will sign the pledge to please me, to 
please us, Jim. How would you feel if you knew 
George and I were in the habit of drinking wine occa- 
sionally ! What would you think if Joe Duncan should 
do it ! 

He never will. You and George never will.*' 

“ And you Do sign the pledge, Jim.’* 

All that was good and noble in James Terry’s heart 
asserted itself ; and for a moment he was upon the point 
of yielding to his brother’s entreaties. But instantly 
there rose before him the complications of his life ; his 
surroundings as a business man, and the opposition he 
must encounter should be suddenly change his habits. 

“ Eben, I know you mean well, and I thank you for 
the interest you feel in my welfare,” he said at length. 
“ I am thankful that you and George are strong teeto- 
talers. I am sorry to deny your request, but all things 
considered, I think best not to sign your pledge. I can 
not explain to you all my reasons for this, but I hope 
you have confidence enough ’in me to believe that 1 
consider them sufficient.” 

‘‘And you won’t do it, Jim.? ” said Eben, in a tone ot 
touching sadness. 

“ Not now,” was answered in a voice which echoed 
the sadness. 


124 


Fife and Drum. 

‘‘Are you quite decided, beyond the influence of ar 
gument or entreaty ? 

“ Quite,” answered the elder brother; adding quick- 
ly, “And now let us talk of other things.” 

But Eben had lost his interest in other things. He 
did not need to tell Anna that his mission had been un- 
successful. She read it in his face, and the pleasure of 
the visit was at an end. She wished to go home, and 
the brother and sister who had loved each other so 
fondly, parted with a mutual sense of relief. 


f 


CHAPTER IX. 


FAILED. 

Three years from the time of this parting Mrs. James 
Terry held in her hand a letter which she had read and 
re-read, until at last she comprehended its full import. 
Her father had written to her asking assistance, repre- 
senting himself as suffering from absolute want. 

He had been unfortunate in some of his late ventures, 
and as she was well married, he did not think it too 
much to ask her to send him a few hundred dollars, and 
so put him on his feet again. He wished to see her, 
and proposed that she should come to him, bringing 
the assistance he required. He might be running a 
risk in writing to her, but since he had, by chance, 
learned her address, he longed to hear some word di-. 
rectly from her. He knew she would never believe the 
false accusations made against him, and which had 
driven him into exile. 

While Mrs. Terry was still holding the letter, her 
husband came in, and she gave it to him to read. 

“ I supposed your father was dead,*' he said, evident 
ly annoyed by what he had read. 

“ 1 suppose you hoped he was dead,"' she answered. 

I don’t know. Do you wish to go to him ? ” 

“ It would be a great trouble, and of course I could 

(125) 


126 


Fife and Drum, 

not go without the money. Father was always good to 
me. He never denied me anything, and I should like 
to help him,” 

“ I can not furnish the money. We have met with 
heavy losses, and are likely to go down with others.” 

“ Always the same stoi}^” said Mrs. Terry. ‘‘ I have 
heard it so much it has ceased to have any impression 
upon me, except to make me more tired of it. It is a 
way men have of talking to their wives when money is 
wanted. I was feeling wretchedly to-day, and this has 
quite upset me. But I promised to lunch with Mrs. 
Margot and Mrs. Winter, and I leave the whole respon- 
sibility with you.” 

James Terry made no reply to his wife. After she 
left the room he sat for an hour with his head supported 
by his hand, and his eyes closed. Then he arose, and 
going to a cupboard, poured out a glass of brandy and 
drank it. 

He knew only too well that the ladies who were 
lunching together would sip their wine or champagne ; 
his wife, perhaps, indulging more freely than her com- 
panions. The knowledge half maddened him ; inspir- 
ing him, also, with a feeling akin to contempt for one he 
had so loved. 

But other considerations claimed attention. The 
firm of which he was a member was upon the eve of 
insolvency. But one chance remained to them, and 
that so slight: it was hardly to be taken into account. 
If they went down he would be penniless. In any event 
he could not continue his present style of living. His 
partners had retrenched, and he had lost in their esti- 
mation by not doing the same. He might ask assistance 


Fife a 7 id Drum. 127 

of his brothers, but he would not involve them in the 
fortunes of a falling house. 

The last struggle was at hand. If his fears were re- 
alized he must start anew, away from all with whom he 
had been associated. At whatever cost to himself he 
must do this. The struggle came, only to end in utter 
disaster. 

“Failed!^* cried Mrs. Terry, when told of what had 
occurred. ‘^Failed!” she repeated. ‘‘You don’t 
mean that you are poor, without any money } ” 

“I do mean it,” replied her husband. “We must 
leave here at once. Fortunately, our board is paid for 
this week, and that will give us time to think what is 
best to be done. We must take some cheap rooms and 
live as plainly as possible.” 

“And you liave brought me to this ! ” exclaimed the 
unreasonable woman. “ What can I do, and what is 
father to do ! I never can live in cheap rooms. How 
will this furniture look in cheap rooms ! ” 

“This furniture will not go into cheap rooms. It 
must be sold. Fane, I have nothing. Can’t you un- 
derstand that ? ” 

“ I can’t, and I won’t,” she answered. “ My poor 
head, and poor father ! What can I do ! ” 

“ Let us begin over again, my dear,” said her hus- 
band; touched with pity for her genuine distress. “ We 
have both of us made mistakes, and now let us begin 
over again.” 

“ Begin what ? ” she asked excitedly. “ I made my 
mistake when I married you. Joe Duncan is twice as 
smart as you are ; rich, too, and I might have married 
him if I had played my cards right. I wish I had 


128 


Fife a7id Driiin, 

People say he and Eben are going to be some of the 
richest men in the country.” 

The heartless words were spoken, but let us do the 
speaker justice. Even she would not have uttered 
them, except under the influence of some exciting drink. 
This, however, did not excuse her in the eyes of her 
husband. It only made her weakness and selfishness 
more apparent ; confirming him, also, in his intention to 
go to some place where he was a stranger, and there 
begin anew. 

Although his wife at first insisted that she would not 
leave the hotel, she soon found her social position so 
changed, that she was ready to go anywhere, rather than 
remain to meet the haughty glances and cold greetings 
of those who had once been flattered by her friendship. 

They retained only the plainest of their furniture ; 
such as could be easily packed for transportation, and 
went into^ cheap lodgings, to wait for the final settlement 
of business. A compromise was effected, by which a 
few hundreds of dollars could be divided among the 
members of the firm ; and with his share in hand, James 
Terry, at the age of thirty- two, looked around for em- 
ployment, by which he could provide for himself and wife. 

While doing this Joe Duncan came to him and offered 
him a lucrative position in his native town. 

“ Thank you a thousand times for your kindness, but 
I can not go there,” he replied. ‘‘ It seems to me I 
would almost rather starve. You don’t know, and I 
can’t tell you, all that prevents my doing as you wish. 
I would give half the years of my allotted life if I had 
never left you ; but it is too late to go back. I made 
my choice, and I must bide the consequences.^^ 


129 


Fife and Drum. 

You are going wrong, Jim,*' then exclaimed his 
friend in a voice full of emotion. ‘‘ I can see it. We 
all know it. You once asked me, if I saw you going 
wrong, to reach out a hand to save you, and I promised 
you that 1 would. I am here to redeem my promise. 
Will you take my hand 1 Oh, Jim, it can not be that 
you have forgotten the days when, with fife and drum, 
we drifted down the river together ? 

‘‘ No, Joe, I have not forgotten those days, and I 
never shall forget them. Next to my mother, you have 
been the best and truest friend I ever had. We drifted 
together, but when the right time came, you put your 
hands to the oars and rowed against the stream ; while 
I have been always drifting. If I was free to go back 
with you, God knows I would, but I can not. Don’t 
ask me the reason why, and don’t, above all things, 
think me ungrateful. 1 have a little left, and I can 
work. Work will do me good, but I must work among 
strangers.” 

Failing the acceptance of his first proposal, Joe Dun- 
can had another in reserve, w^hich he now brought for- 
ward. The firm of Duncan & Terry, consisting of four 
members, would establish their friend and brother in a 
commission house, wherever he might choose to locate ; 
allowing him a most generous percentage upon all sales 
he might make for them. This they did, with a full 
understanding that they might lose by the arrangement, 
and with a readiness to accept such loss should it faf 
upon them. 

“ Jim, you are not a teetotaler,” said Joe Duncan. 

Not entirely,” was replied. 


130 


Fife and Drum. 

“You are wrong in that; all wrong; especially wrong 
for one like you. You told me, once, there was hot 
blood in your veins, and '' 

“ I know it all, Joe, better than you can tell me. I 
have not tasted a drop of liquor for three weeks, and I 
never intend to taste it again.” 

“ Then sign a pledge that you will not, Jim. I know 
you will keep your pledge, and all will be well. I have 
brought with me our family pledge. Come, dear old 
friend, be one with us in this matter. Why, Jim, I 
would give half I am worth to have your name on our 
pledge.” 

“ I will think of it,” answered James Terry, after a 
long silence, in which it seemed to his companion that 
the powers of good and evil fought for the possession of 
his soul. “ I can not do it now, but you can trust me, 
Joe. I never told you a falsehood, and I would sooner 
die than be a drunkard.” 

Joe Duncan could say no more. The bounds had 
been fixed, beyond which he dared not go, lest he 
should defeat his own purpose. He remained in the 
city, in almost constant intercourse with his friend, until 
the latter had decided where to locate. He then went 
to this location himself, paying all expenses of removal, 
and superintending the opening of business. 

Miss Alice Ray, who, by the death of her parents, had 
come into possession of their property, offered her cousin 
a home for a few months, but this offer was most ungra- 
ciously declined. She had no fancy for the dull old 
house, where her conduct would be sharply criticised. 
She would go with her husband, and although privately 


Fife (ifid Drum. 13 1 

complaining of what she was pleased to call theii 
“ meager accommodations,” when in the presence ol 
Mr. Duncan she made an effort to appear at her best. 

Once more was James Terry entreated to make his 
salvation sure, and once more, with what seemed insane 
perversity, he refused to do so. 


CHAPTER X. 


A DOUBLE MARRIAGE. 

A DOUBLE marriage united the Terry and Duncan 
families ; Amos Duncan marrying Anna Terry and Eben 
Terry marrying Lilia Duncan. 

People wondered that James Terry was not present at 
the wedding, but he excused himself upon the plea of 
his wife’s ill health and the demands of business. He sent 
long letters to the brides, with elegant presents, yet 
nothing could induce him to forego his first decision ; 
so that even on the marriage-day there was something 
of sadness mingled with the joy. 

In the evening twilight, when a strange stillness 
brooded over the now deserted rooms, Hope Duncan 
and her brother sat in the library, talking of the past, 
and forecasting of the future. 

“ I wish there had been a third marriage,” said the sis- 
ter. I should miss you more than words can express, 
but you ought to have a home of your own, Joe dear. 
I wish you to be happier than you can be, living as you 
do now. We shall soon get to be elderly people.” 

When we will be company for each other,” was re- 
sponded. ‘‘If there is a^wife waiting somewhere for 
me, I have not been apprised of the fact. At present I 
am fully occupied in congratulating my brothers and 
sisters. As for a home of my own, I fee) myself enti- 
(132) 


^33 


Fife and Drum, 

tied to as much of this home as I choose to appropriate. 
The old house, with its nooks and angles, is dearer than 
any other could be. The boys can have new houses^ 
while we cling to the old. If Jim was only settled neai 
us, doing well, I should be perfectly satisfied, so far as 
our families are concerned. Eben and Amos deserve 
their wives, and that is saying enough in their praise. 
If Jim’s wife was like them he would be an entirely dif* 
ferent man, although that does not relieve him of the re- 
sponsibility of his own life. He is going down fast, and 
it is impossible for us to prevent it.” 

“ It is hard to say that, Joe dear.” 

‘‘ Hard as it is, it is true. There is a mystery about 
it I can not comprehend. Jim knows his danger, and 
his face bears the marks of dissipation, but no earthly 
power can prevail upon him to change his course.” 

‘‘ If he could be persuaded to come back to us, it 
seems as though there might be hope for him.” 

“No persuasion can have any effect- Eben says he 
shall do no more, except to wait for further develop 
ments.” 

“ What if Eben should grow to be like him ! Have 
you ever thought of that, Joe dear.? ” 

“ Indeed I have, Hope. I believe I have thought of 
every contingency ; of the posterity that may be, in 
which there may appear some outcropping of the terri- 
ble habit J am more and more convinced that at least 
one-quarter of the children of this generation must make 
a steady fight against inherited tendencies, if they would 
achieve anything really good or great, The moderate 
drinking of those who have gone before us is largely re- 
sponsible for the reckless dissipation of the present day.’ 


134 


Fife and Drum. 

'‘And what of those who are to come ? 

'‘God only knows. Eben Terry realizes his danger 
and is trying to live as a Christian should. George 
seems to be in no danger, and as long as neither of them 
taste the cursed stuff, they are certainly safe. As for 
ourselves, we ought to be abstainers to the end. Father 
says that when he and Levi Terry were young men, they 
drank together without thinking any more of it than of 
any other social enjoyment. He heard a lecture which 
set him to thinking of the matter, and at last decided 
him to drink no more. He tried to influence his friend 
to join him, but without effect. There was where their 
ways in life separated. Father has talked it all over 
with Eben more freely than he has with me.’* 

“ What if he should talk it over with Jim } 

“It would do no good; and besides, Jim would not 
allow it. He is growing sensitive, and almost irritable 
about it.’^ 

“And his wife ” 

“ DonT let us speak of her, Hope. I can only say 
that if she is not what men call a hard drinker, her looks 
belie her. I shall never give Jim up. I believe there 
will come a time when he will turn to me for help.** 

“ You boys are helping him constantly.** 

“ In the way of business. That we count as a part 
of our regular expenses. It is the only way we can keep 
Jim*s head above water, and he is not going down as 
long as money will keep him afloat. Alice Ray told me 
to-day she had heard her uncle was living in the same 
city with his daughter, and she wished me to ascertain 
if it was true. I shall write to Eben about it.** 

James Terry was evidently unwilling to answei 


Fife and Drum. 135 

his brother’s questions ; yet at last he acknowledged 
that his wife’s father was not far away, adding : 

I know you won’t betray the old man into the hands 
of his accusers.” 

I know I won’t either,” was replied. Of course 
you provide for him, Jim.^ ” 

“Well, yes. I couldn’t refuse, although I told Fane 
I hadn’t a cent I could really call my own. I shouldn’t 
blame you if you should throw me overboard.” 

“ We should blame ourselves, so don’t speak of it.” 

Mrs. Terry greeted the bridal party cordially, proud 
of their relationship, yet rejoicing at their early depart- 
ure. Of all things, she dreaded the presence of any one 
who had known her when she considered herself a 
charming young lady. The change in her personal ap- 
pearance was so great that she could not but be aware 
of it. She was sensitive, too, in regard to her husband ; 
fearful, also, of some calamity which might take him 
from her. 

Misfortune had not taught her wisdom, or roused her 
from her indolence. On the contrary, every year added 
to her inefficiency and increased her exactions. Her 
father remonstrated with her; and when he learned of 
her intemperate habits, insisted upon a radical reform. 
He needed some stimulant himself ; but, as he assured 
his daughter, he never went beyond a prescribed quan- 
tity. 

When Miss Alice Ray became assured that her uncle 
was dependent upon the bounty of James Terry, she 
hastened to make provision for his support; claiming 
this as her right. That she might understand bis wants, 
she visited him, finding him but a wreck of his formed 


136 


Fife and Drum, 

self; sorry, if not penitent, for the past, and living in 
constant dread of exposure. He begged her to talk to 
Fane, whose condition he represented as most pitiful. 

I never expected we should come to what we have,’ 
he said. “ Fane’s husband is a poor man ; getting to be 
more like his father every day, and she — Why, Alice, 
I can hardly speak the words, but she must give up 
drinking beer and ale. I have tried to have her go to 
housekeeping, so as to have something to take up her time, 
instead of gossiping with other women as idle as she is ; 
but she won’t hear to me. I have done wrong, but I 
loved Fane, and did all I could for her. I wanted 
money for her more than for myself, and it hurts me to 
see her as she is. She ought to be just in the prime of 
her life, but she is an old-looking woman, faded before 
her time. And her husband. It is a great pity about 
him. His^brothers are smart. Fane made a mistake in 
marrying him.” 

“He was considered smarter than either of his 
brothers, and a kinder-hearted boy than he was never 
lived,” replied Miss Ray. “ He and Fane both made a 
mistake in marrying, but the mistake has fallen most 
heavily upon him.” 

“ Perhaps it has,” answered the unhappy man, with a 
sigh, adding soon after: ‘‘Anyway, I wish something 
could be done to make them different.” 


CHAPTER XI, 


THE WHISTLER. 

The old d-u s of Fife and Drum would return ncvei 
more, but the little maiden who whistled an accompani- 
ment to their music, whistled still. When she was at 
home, the Duncans and Terrys were often invited to 
spend an evening in the same north-west room she had 
once described as dark and cold, but which was now 
bright and warm with sunshine and glowing pictures. 

The carpet her mother had feared would be faded had 
long ago given place to one of such mossy softness and 
richness of color as, alone, to change the entire aspect 
of the room. Piles and piles of music attested to the 
tastes of their owner. The dreams of Lizzie Dow’s 
childhood tended to their fulfillment 

She earned money, too, which she spent freely a 
home, thus silencing the criticisms of those who had 
prophesied that her father would come to poverty, be- 
cause of the extravagant sums spent upon her musical 
education. She was repaying him, better than in dol- 
lars and cents, in the consciousness that he had helped 
her to a life of usefulness and happiness. 

The towns-people were very proud of her; very fond 
of her, too, for she gave to them of her best without 
stint. She sang in the village church, and in the social 
meetings, as sweetly as in crowded concert halls. II 

(137) 


138 Fife and Drum. 

funds were to be raised, she was ready to give an eve- 
ning’s entertainment, which was sure to be well patron- 
ized. 

William Dow had a family around him, but his sister 
was the same to him she had ever been ; one whose 
general ability was not to be questioned, and whose 
wishes were entitled to consideration. Hope Duncan 
regarded her as a younger sister, receiving her confidence 
and sharing in her ambitions. 

“ I have a part in so many lives, it seems to me, 
sometimes, I am getting more than really belongs to me,'’ 
said this friend on one occasion. 

“ You have helped to mold so many lives that it seems 
to me you have done more good than any other person 
I know,” was replied. “ The talks we had together, 
child as I was, when you were confined to your room, 
did more for me then than all other influences. I used 
to think I should be willing to be sick, as you were, if I 
could only be like you.” 

“It was a hard discipline for me, but it would have 
been harder for you.” 

“ I presume it would. Your sickness made me what 
I am now. You encouraged me to do everything dain- 
tily, as well as thoroughly. You told me it was worth 
while for me to whistle and sing as well as I possibly 
could; and when I could whistle a fair accompaniment 
to the fife and drum, I was more delighted with the 
achievement than I ever have been since. Joe and Jim 
praised me until they came very near upsetting my weak 
little head. Grandfather Willey, too, praised me. Dear 
old man ! I am thankful he lived until I had won my 
first laurels.” 


139 


Fife a7id Drum, 

You have a great deal for which to be thankful, 
luzzie. God has bestowed upon you one of His sweet- 
est gifts/' 

“ I know He has, dear friend, and not a day goes over 
my head in which I do not thank Him for it. Going 
from place to place, as I do, seeing the care-worn, anxi- 
ous faces of so many women, my whole heart goes out 
in gratitude for my happy lot. The Pharisee’s prayer, 
much as it has been condemned, is often upon my lips; 
not in a spirit of vainglory, but of pure thankfulness." 

‘‘ I understand you, Lizzie. Our lot has been cast 
in pleasant places, and among loving friends. Your 
brother’s wife is a dear friend." 

“Very dear; and Will is so thoughtful for her. She 
can never feel that her life is dw^arfed or narrowed by 
her home duties. He insists upon^her reading or study- 
ing, some part of every day ; and young as they are, 
the children are catching the spirit of their parents." 

“ When you are married, you must have a husband 
as considerate and thoughtful as your brother." 

“ I have no plans in that direction, Hope. I could 
not give up my music, which will take a large part of 
my life; and it must be an exceptional man who would 
be satisfied with what remains." 

“ In marrying you, he would marry an exceptional 
woman who, because of one great gift, is richer in all 
gifts. You would not be satisfied with ordinary good- 
ness in a husband." 

“ That is true. If married, I could not endure life ex- 
cept with a man whom I could trust without a shadow ot 
doubt, and whose perfect integrity was beyond suspicion. 
Above all things, he must be a teetotaler to the last 


140 Fife and Drum. 

degree, and from principle too. The use of intoxicat- 
ing liquors is the bane of our country; and I have been 
horrified, more than once, to see how much it is used 
by men and women who really consider themselves 
morally upright. The same stimulant is given to pro- 
duce strength, and to give rest; to keep people awake, 
and to put them to sleep. I have become acquainted 
with musicians and singers who were breaking down, 
not from overtraining and overwork, but from actual 
dissipation.*’ 

It is terrible, Lizzie. I sit here, at home, thinking 
about it, and wishing I could do something to prevent 
it, but I am powerless.” 

Not so, Hope. You have great influence. Every 
woman who stands up strongly and faithfully for total 
abstinence has great influence. Eben Terry says he 
owes what he is to you, and he is respected by all who 
know him. If only Jim had stayed here! Poor Jim! 
Hope, did you ever think if you could have him all by 
yourself, where you could talk to him for an hour, you 
could induce him to give up his intemperate habits.?** 

‘‘ I used to think so, but I know now that my words 
would be wasted.” 

‘‘ Then I, certainly, could do him no good ; but it 
has seemed to me that if I could first flood his heart 
with old memories, by singing some familiar song, I 
could afterward plead with him so eloquently, he must 
yield to my persuasions.” 

If you could do that, Lizzie, it would be the grand- 
est work of your life ; but we have ceased to expect it 


CHAPTER XII. 


so SORRY. 

The hall was filled with a large and appreciative 
audience, to listen to the singer whose coming had been 
heralded weeks before. 

Strong, clear, and sweet was the voice which, one 
moment, rang out like a deep-toned bell, and the next, 
was hushed to whispered softness. The most difficult 
music was rendered faultlessly ; yet best of all were the 
homely, simple ballads, which found some answering 
chord in every breast. 

Encore followed encore, until several additions had 
been made to the printed programme; when, to close, 
the singer seated herself at the piano, playing an ac- 
companiment to her singing, in close imitation of the 
music of a fife and drum. At this, a man occupying a 
back-seat leaned forward to listen, as if fearful of losing 
a single sound; and being observed, an added pathos 
was given to the words sung. 

A storm of applause burst from the audience; and 
under its infiuenc the singer resumed her seat at the 
piano. Again, and with greater effect than before, a 
similar accompaniment was played to a song which had 
always been a favorite with James Terry. The singer 
had seen him, and now sang for him alone ; her whole 

(141) 


142 


Fife and Drum, 

soul going out in a great longing to stir the deepest 
fountains of his heart. 

When the concert was over, in an ante-room a small 
group was gathered around a man who had been brought 
there from the hall, where he was supposed to have fallen 
in a fit. 

“ It is Terry,'^ remarked one of the group. “ He 
represents an honorable house, but he is no better than 
a drunkard. He has probably taken a glass too much. 
Better send him home, if anybody knows where that is. 
He seems to be regaining consciousness, so he can give 
his own orders.” 

“ Please allow me,” said Lizzie Dow, who on her way 
through the room had heard the familiar name and came 
nearer. “ The gentleman is one of my townsmen ; an 
old friend, with whom I have played and sung many a 
time. Jim, I am sorry you are ill,” she added, address- 
ing him as she had been wont to do. 

He made an effort to speak to her, but found it im- 
possible to do so. He could not command his voice ; 
yet his silence was more eloquent than any words would 
have been. She gave him her address, asking him to 
call upon her in the morning, and then followed her 
attendant. 

She was to leave the city the next day at noon, and 
counting this as her opportunity, she waited impatiently 
for the appearance of James Terry, until convinced that 
he would not call. Resolving, however, to see him, if 
possible, she went to his place of business. Here the 
clerk informed her that he was probably at home ; and 
giving directions to the hackman, she was carried 
there. 


Fife and Drum. 143 

Mrs. Terry was in, but the woman who answered the 
bell was not sure that she was able to see company. 

Is Mr. Terry here, and can I see him } ” asked 
Lizzie Dow. 

‘‘He is in his room, but he is not well,” was replied. 

“ Will you tell him that an old friend wishes to see 
him, and that I have only a short time at my com- 
mand } ” 

“Yes, ma’am, I will,” answered the woman, leading 
the way into a plainly-furnished room on the first floor. 

After waiting here for full half the time allotted to 
her call, James Terry came in, looking pale and hag- 
gard. 

“ I thought it might be you,” he said, extending his 
hand to meet hers, which was at once outstretched. 
“ My wife is not able to see you this morning, and as 
you can see, I am half sick myself ; but I could not let 
you go away without telling you how much I enjoyed 
your singing last evening. You deserve great praise for 
having made the most of your talents. My congratula- 
tions are worth little, but such as they are I offer them 
to you.” 

“ Thank you, Jim — I must call you by the old name 
— I know of no one whose congratulations would be 
^raore to me. Do you remember the first time I whis- 
tled an accompaniment to Fife and Drum ” 

“ I am not sure that I do.” 

“ I am sure that I do. All the applause of last even- 
ing was nothing to me, compared with the praises you 
and Joe showered upon me then. You were the hero 
of my childhood, Jim, and Hope Duncan was the 
angel.” 


144 Fife and Drum. 

“ Hope Duncan was always an angel of goodness, and 
always will be.” 

“ True, indeed, and many shall rise up to call her 
blessed. She has made Eben what he is, and Lilia will 
finish the work so well begun. You ought to go back, 
to make one of the delightful family parties. The drum 
is ready to beat an accompaniment to the fife.” 

“ The fife is out of tune, while the drum responds to 
every tap. It is too late, Lizzie, for me to go back. I 
can only go on to the end, whatever that end may be.” 

“ Jim Terry, I must speak plainly to you. I have 
thought of you and prayed for you, until it has seemed 
to me I could say something to influence you to come 
back to your early faith. Why, Jim, think what you 
were to your mother, and to your brothers and sister ; 
and now, you are ruining yourself, soul and body, as 
your father ruined himself. You know this, and your 
friends know it. Stop now, I implore you, this very 
day, this very hour. Pledge yourself now to put away 
forever the cursed drink, and live, as God intended you 
should live, one of the grandest and noblest of lives. 
Speak to me, Jim, and say that you will do this.” 

In the intensity of her feelings she had spoken hur- 
riedly; and now, as she paused, she was half terrified at 
the emotion she had evoked. She trembled for the 
reason of the man before her ; whose face alternately 
flushed and paled, and whose lips moved convulsively, 
while they gave forth no sound. At length he regained 
something like composure, and with streaming eyes, 
said : 

“ It is useless to think of me or pray for me. The 
die is cast. My fate is sealed. I can not turn back. 


145 


Fife and Drt^n. 

V 

Do you suppose I choose to be what I am, while my old 
friends are winning for themselves wealth and fame ? 
You should know me better than that, Lizzie. Don’t 
talk to me of my father. If he had died before he had 
ever seen my mother, there would have~ been one less 
doomed man upon the earth.” 

‘‘Don’t blame your father, Jim Terry. If you had 
never tasted the cursed drink, you would not be a 
drunkard, were he ten times the drunkard that he was.” 

“ I know it ; I know it ! ” answered the unhappy man, 
with a deprecating gesture, as if to ward off a threatened 
blow. ‘‘You can’t tell me anything about it that I 
don’t know, and I can tell you nothing more than you 
see.” 

“ You are not angry with me.^ ” said his visitor ques- 
tioningly. 

“ No, not angry,” he replied. “ I believe I am never 
angry now. I am past that ; past everything but being 
sorry. I am so sorry for all that has come to me the 
last ten years. It might have been different, but it is 
too late now to change.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE END. 


Every detail of Lizzie Dow’s interview with James 
Terry was reported to Joe Duncan, who listened ear- 
nestly and sadly. 

“ I can not help feeling that there is something hold- 
ing Jim fast,” he said. ‘‘ I don’t know what it is, but I 
feel its presence whenever I am with him.” 

‘‘ I felt it, myself ; and as I left him, it half seemed to 
me that I heard a mocking laugh at my disappoint- 
ment,” replied the young lady. I am afraid there is 
no hope for him.” 

I have ceased to expect any change. I am only 
waiting for the end, and that must come soon at the 
latest. Jim Terry can not endure what his father did, 
and besides, there is a double strain upon him.” 

I know there is, poor fellow. It was one of my 
childhood’s plans that he should marry Hope. She 
could have made him all he should be. She could hold 
a man to his best without any especial effort, and that 
is what few women can do. I could not do it. A man 
must do that for himself, or he can not have my confi- 
dence.” 

Most people need encouragement. We are none of 
< ' ^ ' ^, us likely to do our level best, unless some one manifests 
y- an interest in our welfare.” 

I"’ r ' (146) 



f < 




K • 


147 


Fife and Drum, 

“ I know that I am always thinking of my friends, 
and imagining what they will say of me. Your sister 
Hope is a real inspiration to me.*' 

And Hope's brother ? " said the gentleman, with a 
light in his brown eyes his companion had not seen 
there before. 

Hope’s brother has been my friend ever since I can 
remember," she replied, with an embarrassment at which 
she wondered. 

“ Will you allow me to be your best and dearest friend ? 
Can you trust your happiness. in my hands?" he asked, 
coming nearer to her. “ I think I must have loved you 
all these years." 

How he further told his love, and what answers he 
received, does not matter to us ; but when it was known 
that Joe Duncan was to marry Lizzie Dow, no one pre- 
sumed to question the fitness of the union. She could 
safely trust in his honor and integrity ; while she soon 
learned that in giving all, she yet retained all. Con- 
gratulations were tendered them on every hand, and the 
singer sang more sweetly than ever before. 

In all this happiness, however, James Terry was not 
forgotten. The business, of which he had the nominal 
management, was then almost entirely in the hands of a 
trustworthy clerk, who reported to his employers what- 
ever was of importance for them to know. It was he 
who telegraphed the news of Mrs. Terry's sudden 
death, which news was conveyed at once to Miss Ray. 

The brothers went on, immediately, to attend the fune- 
ral of their sister-in-law, accompanied by her cousin, who 
was now more anxious for the living than for the dead. 
Few questions were asked; but these few elicited the 


148 


Fife and Drum. 

fact, that the woman lying in her coffin had died of de- 
lirium tremens : another victim to the terrible habit of 
dram-drinking. 

At her father’s request she was carried to his native 
town for burial ; and unwilling as was her husband to go 
there, he could not refuse. Once there, he was not al- 
lowed to leave, as he had intended, when the funeral 
services were over. 

Yielding to the persuasions of Joe Duncan, he ac- 
companied this friend home ; and that very night, a 
long-threatened malady laid its detaining hand upon 
him. Physicians were summoned, and all that love 
or medical skill could do for him was done \ but his 
days were numbered. He might live for weeks, possibly 
for months, or he might die within a few hours. 

When told of this he manifested little surprise. It 
was what he had expected, what he had known must 
be, yet he had hoped to close his life among strangers. 

Please leave me alone with Joe,” he said, after a 
silence broken only by the sobs of his sister. I 
wanted no one but you,” he whispered to his old com- 
rade, when his request had been granted. ‘‘I want 
you to pray, for me, a poor sinner, and ask God to have 
mercy on my soul. I am verily guilty for what I have 
done ; but the guilt is not all mine, and God knows 
how to make allowance for me.” 

The prayer which followed, and upon which seemed 
to hang all his hopes of forgiveness, was to him like a 
helping hand outstretched to save. He drank in every 
word, realizing something of the love which gave it ut- 
terance, and the faith which made this utterance possi- 
ble. 


149 


Fife and Drum. 

*^You have done me good,” he said, as his friend 
arose and bent over him. “ I have something to tell 
you before I die, and it will be better that I should tell 
you soon. I want you all to think of me as kindly as 
you can when I am gone.” 

‘‘We have always thought of you kindly, Jim, never 
unkindly. We have thought it strange that we could 
not have more influence over you, but there was no un- 
kindness in our hearts.” 

“ I must explain what has seemed so strange to you, 
Joe. It looks different to me now from what it has, but 
it is all the explanation I can make.” 

It was all told, with many interruptions and much 
hesitation ; told for once, never to be again mentioned 
until the grave had closed over him who thus revealed 
the secret of his life. 

When he was a boy, as his friend well knew, he had 
been subject to fits of depression and restless craving for 
some new excitement. As he grew older, with so much of 
responsibility resting upon him, he had little time to in- 
dulge in morbid feelings ; yet even then the same crav- 
ing often made him despondent. At length he began to 
fear that he had inherited his father’s appetite for strong 
drink, although it was only at intervals that it asserted 
itself, and then in a somewhat vague manner. This was 
the “hot blood” in his veins, of which he had spoken 
years before, and which had proved his ruin. 

He had first tasted wine at a wedding, where, with 
others, he drank the bride’s health, without a thought 
of the consequences of this act until too late. The fes- 
tivities over, he rushed to gratify the appetite which 
then held sway over him. 


150 Fife and Drum. 

When he recovered from the effects of this indulgence 
he went about his business as usual, and, strangely, felt 
no recurrence of the craving for weeks. When it re- 
turned, however, all else was forgotten in the mad long 
ing he had not power to resist. Repeated indulgence 
strengthened the appetite, making its demands more 
frequent and more importunate; while in his sane 
moods he loathed himself for his weakness. 

‘‘ Hundreds of times I resolved to conquer the appe- 
tite, and sometimes I thought I had conquered it,’’ said 
James Terry, still clasping the hand of his friend. “ But 
my defeat was sure in the end, and at last I gave up the 
struggle. You can never know what I suffered when 
you urged me to sign your pledge. Every appeal made 
to me to change my course of living pierced to my very 
soul ; but I dared not perjure myself, and I knew that 
when the spell was upon me 1 should break a thousand 
pledges to quaff the liquid fire which was consuming 
me. 

“ The appetite was like a tiger tearing at my vitals, 
to be appeased only with alcoholic liquor. With your 
will and determination, Joe, I should have won in the 
fight; but when I left you I left a staff and stay I have 
missed ever since. 

“ Lying here on my death-bed, I blame no one but 
myself for my wasted life ; yet if my father had not left 
me the legacy of a drunkard’s appetite I should not be 
what I am now. I know that, as surely as I know that 
if I had never tasted any intoxicating drink, I should 
not be here. 

‘‘Tell the boys about it when I am gone, and tell 
them, too, that there is no safety for them or for their chil- 


Fife and Drum, 151 

dren, except in total abstinence from everything which 
can intoxicate. There is no safety for any one except 
in such total abstinence. I am thankful I have no 
children, and I charge you, old friend, that my ruin be 
made a warning to all who shall come after me with a 
drop of my father’s blood in their veins. 

“ Now pray with me again. Then let them all come 
in. It will not be for long that I shall see them.” 

The time was short indeed, yet long enough for those 
who watched beside him to witness something of the 
madness which tortured him, as he shrieked and begged 
for the drink which alone could give him relief. 

Two cousins now answer to the names of ‘‘Fife*’ and 
“ Drum,” strong, sturdy boys, who, with others of their 
kindred, stand once each year by the grave of “Uncle 
Jim,” to renew there the pledge to “touch not, taste 
not, handle not the accursed drink.” 



A JOLLY TIME. 



A JOLLY TIME 


CHAPTER L 

THE BRIGHT SIDE. 

‘‘That sounds just like you, Carl. You always did 
look on the dark side. You ’never seemed to see the 
fun of anything. I remember what a sermon you 
preached us boys when we invited you to visit Mr. Bar- 
nard’s melon-patch. Melons and fun were all we wanted, 
but you talked as if we had proposed highway robbery.” 

“ 1 remember about that, too, and somebody paid dear 
for melons and fun. According to my ideas, they cost 
more than they came to, and the cost fell upon those who 
had not been consulted beforehand. I intend to look on 
both sides of a question.” 

“ There you go again. I wonder you didn’t study 
theology and set up for a preacher. You would have 
made a tip-top one, enforcing precept by example.” 

“ Then you give me credit for consistency, Loren.” 

“Yes ; you practice what you preach. There can’t any- 
body deny that. You are a first-rate fellow, too, if you 
are behind the times. What is the use of moping here by 
yourself, when you could join a jolly lot of fellows and go 
in for a good time ! ” 

“ I never mope, Loren. I read, or study, or write ; 


156 A Jolly Time. 

and time goes so fast with me, I am surprised every even- 
ing to find it is gone.’* 

“ Well, every one to his taste ; but I should get the blues, 
if I was shut up here for a single evening.” 

This is not a blue room.” 

You are right there, Carl. It looks as though a girl 
had been here arranging things. Pressed ferns, autumn 
leaves, and plumes of golden rod ! Where did you find 
them ? ” 

“ Two miles away, in one of the coziest nooks imagin- 
able. . I have visited it every week through the summer 
and fall. I couldn’t afford to take a vacation in the regu- 
lar way, so I took it in installments, and enjoyed it all the 
more for my long walks. I saw a great many plants and 
flowers that were new to me.” 

“I remember, now, that you were an enthusiastic 
botanist ; while I never could see any sense in pulling 
flowers to pieces to find out how they were put together. 
I like them well enough to wear a button-hole bouquet, 
when a pretty girl gives it to me, but it makes no differ- 
ence to me what order they belong to. I prefer some- 
thing more substantial.” 

“As beer and cigars, with perhaps a glass of cham- 
pagne.” 

“ Exactly. I have a fancy for the good things of life, 
and a good cigar is a real luxury.” 

“ It may be to you, but I choose a flower.” 

“All right. You can pay your money and take your 
choice. But you won’t deny that an oyster supper is one 
of the things to be enjoyed.” 

“ Indeed, I won’t. I cooked an oyster supper, and 
served it, too, last evening in this room. I had two guests. 


A Jolly Time. 157 

who said they never ate anything half so good before. So, 
you see, I understand about oysters.’^ 

‘‘ But you want something to go down with the oysters.*’ 

“ We had coffee and crackers. Making coffee is one of 
my accomplishments. I always made it when I was at 
home. Spend the evening with me, and you shall have 
some as good as the best.” 

Thanks ; but I am booked for Carney’s. Wish you 
would go with me ; but, if you won’t, I must go without 
you. I thought I could persuade you. You ought to 
have gotten rid of some of your country notions in the 
last year.” 

‘‘ Country notions, as you call them, are going to stick 
by me. But I won’t preach any more. I don’t wish to 
tire my audience. You have half an hour before your 
appointment at Carney’s, and you may as well spend it 
here.” 

‘‘Yes ; I don’t care to get there before the rest do.” 

“Then sit down again, and tell me what you hear 
from home.” 

“ That reminds me I have a letter in my pocket that I 
took from the office yesterday morning. I have been so 
busy, I haven’t had time to read it, and, with your per- 
mission, I will read it now.” 

“ Do so. A letter from home would have burned a 
big hole in my pocket long before now if it had been un- 
read. I would sooner go without my dinner than neglect 
such a letter.” 

“ That was the way with me at first, but I am pretty 
well weaned by this time.” 

“Weaned from home, do you mean?” 

“Well, no; not exactly, Of course I think of home 


158 A Jolly Time, 

and care for it, but I don’t have much time There, 

Carl, I know what is on the end of your tongue, and you 
may as well speak it out.” 

“I might be preaching, if I did ; and you don’t like 
preaching. But I am detaining you from your letter.” 

Loren Parsons glanced down the first page of the 
closely-written sheet, and then refolding it, returned it to 
his pocket, with the remark : 

“ It is from Noll, and he is almost as much of a preacher 
as you are. He has the faculty of looking on the dark 
side, while I am bound to keep my eyes on the bright 
side. His letters are full of all sorts of good advice. I 
suppose Aunt Keziah puts him up to it ; but he is alto- 
gether too old for his years.” 

He is a remarkably fine boy,” responded Carlton 
Briggs. “ Everybody speaks in his praise ; and it wouldn’t 
be strange if he should look on the world from a higher 
stand-point than you or I shall. He may preach to us 
both from a pulpit.” 

‘‘ Deliver me from such an affliction ! Aunt Keziah may 
have all the glory. Noll ought to have been a girl. He 
never was made to fight his way through difficulties.” 

“ There will be no need of his fighting. That young 
brother of yours will make his way where many would 
turn back discouraged. He can work, and wait for the 
result of his labors.” 

‘‘ He is persevering and industrious. I know that. If 
he wasn’t, he never would write such long letters.” 

“ I hope you write as long ones in return, Loren. He 
was very lonely after you left him, and a letter from you 
was a real treasure to the boy. He has a very loving 


A Jolly Time. 159 

heart, and, except your Aunt Keziah, you are almost his 
only relative.** 

“ I know if. It is rather hard on him, but I never was 
much given to writing letters, and, besides that, I don*t 
know what to say to such a fellow as Noll. The fact is, 
Carl, I want something jolly going on where I am. That 
is why I like an oyster supper at Carney’s. We are sure 
to have a jolly time.” 






CHAPTER II. 


TEN TIMES TEN. 

** Good- evening; glad to see you/* said Carlton Briggs, 
as he opened the door of his room to admit his old school- 
mate. ‘‘I was just thinking of you. A long letter from 
mother and the girls sent my thoughts back to old-time 
friends, and, of course, you were included. Take a seat 
in my home-made lounging - chair, and see how you 
like it.’* 

‘‘ This is comfortable,’* said the visitor, after accepting 
the proffered seat, “ How in the world you manage to 
get so much out of your salary is a mystery to me. Why, 
I believe you are handy as a girl.’* 

‘‘Somewhat handier with saw, hammer, and nails. A 
dry-goods box has great capabilities, if one only knows 
how to utilize it to the best advantage. I couldn’t afford 
an expensive covering, so was obliged to content myself 
with something cheaper. There is my book-case, too. I 
have just finished that.” 

“It is very nice, and you have quite a library already. 
Where in the world do you get money for such things ? ” 

“ Earn it. They don’t cost much except the work. 
Noll is always doing something of the kind.” 

“Noll is a queer fellow anyway.” 

“ How is he queer ? ” asked Carlton Briggs, looking 
(i6o) 


A Jolly Time. i6i 

sharply at his companion, who evidently shrank from his 
gaze. 

‘‘ I can’t tell exactly, only he is different from any othel 
boy I ever knew. He seems almost as old as Aunt Keziah 
herself.” 

“ He has a wise head on his shoulders. No one can 
deny that ; yet he enjoys boyish sports with a keen relish. 
Of course you know he has taken the first prize in school ; 
and if there was a prize offered in Sunday-school for the 
best Bible-lessons, he would be sure to take that. I hope 
there will be a way for him to go through college.” 

I don’t know of any way, unless Aunt Keziah has an 
old stocking somewhere full of gold.” 

“ You might do something toward it, Loren ; and you 
couldn’t spend your money for a better purpose. You 
have a much larger salary than I have, and I find it pos- 
sible to save a little every month.” 

“ I don’t ; so there’s the difference. When I get pro- 
moted, with my salary doubled, it will be time enough to 
think of saving. It is all I can do now to make the ends 
meet, and sometimes I can’t do that. Money gets 
through my fingers almost without my knowing it. I 
suppose it is natural to me. I never could count pen- 
nies.” 

“ I can. I learned that when I was a very small boy ; 
and — your pardon, Loren — I know that ten times ten 
make one hundred.” 

Which meins, I suppose, that ten cigars cost a dollar.” 

They do, if one cigar costs a dime.” 

“ One does cost a dime, such as I smoke. If there is 
anything I detest it is a coarse, strong cigar. I want 
everything of the best.” 


i 62 


A Jolly Time. 

“ I want everything as good as I can afford, but I don’t 
want cigars of any kind, any more than I want beer of 
whisky.” 

“ That means me, I suppose.” 

I was talking of myself.” 

“And leaving me to apply it to myself. I understand 
it ; but I can’t afford to quarrel with you, especially as I 
came to ask a favor of you. The truth is, Carl, I am 
hard up for money. Our little affair at Carney’s proved 
more expensive than I calculated. The oysters were 
good, and so was the champagne ; too good, I guess. 
There was a heavy bill to pay for damages to furniture, 
and I had to pay my share, although I could take my oath 
that I had nothing to do with it. I borrowed of a friend 
there, and now he has come down on me ; and here I am 
with less than a dollar in my pocket. It won’t do to ask 
for an advance on my salary. I have done that once, 
and I can’t do it again. It would be as much as my place 
is worth.” 

‘‘ I should think it would,” said Carleton Briggs a little 
coldly. 

I might apply to Aunt Keziah for a loan, but she 
would ask too many questions and preach too many ser- 
mons,” responded I^oren Parsons, ignoring his compan- 
ion’s mood. 

“ She would be very likely to give you some advice.” 

^‘And that is just what I don’t want. She is a good 
woman in her place, but she knows nothing of the world 
and what is expected of a young man.” 

“ She has excellent judgment, Loren. Everybody says 
that, and if she had not been doing for others all her life, 
she would be a rich woman. As it is, she is obliged to 


A Jolly Time. 163 

calculate closely to make sure of a support in her old 
age.’^ 

“ I know she has clone a good deal for Noll and me, 
but she had the homestead with everything on itJ* 

‘‘She has paid for it twice over. Your grandfather 
mortgaged it and she redeemed it. Then she mortgaged 
it again to raise money for your father, and it is less than 
two years since she managed to clear that off.’^ 

“ How do you know all that, Carl Briggs 
It is no secret. Everybody in town knows it, and 
knows, too, that she has economized in her own personal 
expenses, that she might give you and Noll a home. If I 
were in your place, I would do anything honest rather than 
ask her for a cent of money.” 

“ I am sure I don’t want to ; but I don’t know where 
Uie money is coming from unless you lend it to me. I 
will pay you as soon as I can earn it.” 

“ How much do you need ? ” 

I^oren Parsons named the very sum Carlton Briggs 
had saved to send to his father, who, although a poor man, 
and almost an invalid, had managed to give him a good 
business education. He could send this amount home, 
and still provide himself with comfortable clothing for the 
winter. He needed a new overcoat. Indeed, on several 
occasions, he had been quite ashamed of this garment, 
which he had really outgrown, and which no amount of 
sponging could renovate. He thought of all this, before 
replying to the young man, who, with twice his salary, 
had come to ask of him a loan. 

I will tell you how I am situated,” he said, at length ; 
and then, speaking frankly, allowed his companion to see 
what a sacrifice it would be on his part to grant the de- 
sired loan. 


1 64 


A Jolly Time. 

“ It is too bad to take a cent of your money, and I 
shall feel mean to do it,” replied Loren Parsons. “You 
have appropriated every cent of it to good purposes, and 
you ought to keep it. But I don’t know where else to go 
for help, and my reputation is at stake. I will certainly 
pay you a part of it when I draw my next month’s salary, 
and the rest shall be forthcoming as soon as possible. You 
said your father did not expect any money from you at 
present, so it will make no difference with him if he gets 
it a month later. As for the overcoat, you can get trust- 
ed, and I advise you to buy one directly. The one you 
have been wearing is a shabby old thing.” 

“ I know it is; but I never run in debt.” 

“I wish I didn’t. I shall appreciate your kindness^ 
Carl ; and if I can ever do you a favor, you may count on 
me to the end of the chapter.” 

The money so much desired was given to him, he sign- 
ing a note for the same, and as he placed it in his pocket- 
book, he assured his friend that it should be repaid at the 
earliest possible moment. 

“ I hope it will,” was responded. “ I shall send to my 
father as I had intended, and wait for an overcoat until I 
can pay for it.” 

“ You shall ! ” exclaimed his debtor, in a tone express- 
ing the utmost surprise. 

“ Certainly, I shall. I have a right to deny myself 
for you, but I have no right to fail of my duty to my 
parents. They know I will do all I can for them, and 
they must not be dissapointed.” 

Loren Parsons rose from the chair in which he had 
been sitting, stood irresolute for a moment, and then, with 
a hasty good-evening, left the room. 


CHAPTER III. 


NOLL^S DISAPPOINTMENT. 

“Aunt Kezie, what do you suppose is the reason Loren 
don^t write to me. I was almost certain I should get a 
letter to-day, and I was so disappointed, I came near 
crying right out in the post-office,” said Oliver Parsons, 
as he came into the kitchen, where his aunt was preparing 
supper. 

“ I am very sorry for your disappointment, Ollie, but 
it would do no good to cry over it,” she replied, with an 
effort to speak cheerfully. “ People away from home 
dofft always realize how anxious their friends are to hear 
from them. You have heard that no news is good news ; 
so, Ollie, we will make the most of what we have, and 
hope for better in the future. That is the way my mother 
used to talk to me when I felt troubled.” 

“But, auntie,* Carl Briggs writes a long letter home 
every single week, and tells all about everything he does ; 
so they know almost as well as if they saw him. Loren 
never does so. His letters are always short. Auntie, 
sometimes I am afraid Loren isn’t as good as he ought to 
be. He don’t go to Sunday-school, and I am afraid he 
don’t go to meeting very often. Wouldn’t it be dreadful 
if he should smoke, and drink, and play cards, and spend 
iiis money foi what he ought not to ? ” 

(165) 


1 66 A Jolly Time, 

‘‘Why, Ollie, what dark suraiises ! Let us look on the 
bright side. I want to talk with you about our wood lot. 
I had an offer this afternoon for some standing timber ; 
and I thought if it should be pleasant to-morrow afternoon 
we would go and look at it, and make up our minds about 
it. We must mark the trees, too, that we are going to 
have cut for firewood. 

“ That will be nice, auntie ; and I may as well take a 
sack with me to hold any stray nuts we can find. I know 
there are lots of them among the dry leaves. Let us go 
early, so to have plenty of time.” 

“Yes, we will. I have been wondering how it would 
do to try to get along with one fire, this winter, except 
when we have company or extra work. This room is 
pleasant, and we could sell a few dollars* worth of wood 
instead of burning it in the sitting-room. We must begin 
to save toward your college expenses.** 

“You are the dearest auntie in the world, to do so 
much for me ; but I mean to work my own way through 
college. If I can only get fitted, I know I can get through. 
Mr. Ellinwood says he will hear me recite in Greek and 
Ivatin, this winter, and I have saved money enough from 
what I earned last summer to buy my books. So that is 
all settled ; and I shall do something for Mr. Ellinwood 
to pay him for his trouble. Besides that, auntie, I am 
going to do the chopping here at home. You know I cut 
down one tree last spring. I know how. I mean to do 
all the work this winter ; and you needn*t hire a man for 
anything unless I get where I can*t go any further. I 
don*t care about two fires, when we have only ourselves. 
We can have the little round table in here, and hang up 
some shelves in the corner for books and papers.** 


A Jolly Time. 167 

But when will you study, Ollie, if you work all the 
time ? ” 

auntie, I am not going to work all the time; but I 
want to see what I can do for myself. I shall be very 
systematic.’* 

The two sat down to a plain supper, still talking and 
planning in regard to work and expenses for the winter ; 
but all this did not make Noll Parsons forget his disap- 
pointment at not hearing from his brother. 

‘‘Aunt Kezie, if you are willing, I am going to write to 
Carl Briggs, and ask him about Loren,” he said, after he 
had brought out the little round table from the sitting- 
room. 

“ I am willing you should write to Carl, but I would be 
careful not to say anything as if you blamed Loren,” re* 
plied the good woman.” 

“ I won’t, auntie. How could I blame him, when he is 
all the brother I have, and I love him almost better than 
I do myself. But Carl always sends me some message in 
every one of his letters, and he said he was very glad I 
got the prize. I wish Loren was like him. I can ask 
him if he ever sees Loren, can’t I ?” 

“ Yes ; there can be no harm in that.” 

“ Then I will write to him this very evening ; but I do 
hope I shall hear from Loren to-morrow.” 

The letter was written ; a long letter, too, in which the 
boy poured out all his heart, except in regard to his 
brother ; yet it was plain to the recipient of this epistle 
that he was sadly troubled. 

Carlton Briggs did not often call upon his old school- 
mate. They had few tastes or sympathies in common; 


1 68 A yolly Time, 

and, moreover, the latter, when at his boarding-place, wag 
likely to be surrounded with young men even more ob- 
jectionable than himself. But pity for Noll, and a desire 
to remind the recreant brother of some neglected duties 
constrained him to lay aside his usuabreserve. 

Mr. Parsons is in his room/^ said the girl who answered 
the bell, and upon rapping for admittance to this room he 
was bidden to come inj* 

“ Excuse me, Carl, I thought — I thought it was some- 
body else,” said Loren Parsons, laying down a hand of 
cards and speaking with manifest embarrassment. I am 
glad to see you. Take a seat. We are a little crowded 
here, but you know there is always room for one more.” 

“ Thank you ; I can not stay to sit,” was replied. I 
received a letter from Noll in which I thought you might 
be interested ; but, as you are engaged, I will not interrupt 
you. Good-evening.” 

Stay, Carl,” called the discomfited host, just as he 
reached the street door. ‘‘ Thank you for remembering 
me, and I will see you to-morrow evening.” 

“ What a prig he is,” said one, as the hand of cards 
was retaken and the game went on. 

“A smart fellow for business, and would be good-look- 
ing if he dressed decently,” said another. ‘‘ His overcoat 
looks as though it came out of Noah’s ark. Miserly, per- 
haps.” 

“ Not a bit of it, now,” exclaimed Loren Parsons, 
ashamed to keep silence while^ a true friend was thus ma- 
ligned. ‘‘ Carl Briggs was always a generous hearted fellow, 
ready to lend a helping hand when he could, and he hasn’t 
changed either. The whole family are generous, although 


169 


A Jolly Time. 

it was always a mystery to me how they managed to pro- 
vide for themselves, to say nothing of what they did for 
others/* 

“ Never mind about Briggs. Likely he is well enough, 
but talking about him won’t finish our game ; and, for my 
part, I want to know who is going to pay for the oysters,” 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE OLD COAT. 

True to his promise, I^oren Parsons called upon his 
friend, the next evening, although strongly tempted to go 
elsewhere. 

‘‘ I was ashamed to come, and more ashamed to stay 
away,’’ he said, after the ordinary greetings had been ex- 
changed. ‘‘ The truth is, Carl, I had no idea of entertain- 
/ ing company, last evening, until Dustin told me they were 
coming in to have a game of cards. I intended to see 
you and make a respectable payment on my debt ; but 
luck was against me, and my pocket-book was depleted 
as usual. 1 don’t know what you will say to it.” 

“ If I should say anything, it might sound to you like 
preaching, and you don’t enjoy preaching.” 

Can’t say I do ; but I deserve to hear a good, sharp 
sermon. You wore your old overcoat.” 

‘‘ 1 have no other, and the evening was chilly.” 

“ Did you send money to your father?” 

“ I did ; and received such thanks in reply, that I would 
rather wear my old coat five years than have missed 
them.” 

‘‘You are a queer fellow to feel so. For my part, I 
want to dress as well as the next man. I have a few 
dollars for you this evening, and you shall have the rest as 

(170) 


A Jolly Time. 171 

soon as I can get it for you. Don^t you find it the easiest 
thing in the world to get into debt ? ” 

I am careful never to get into debt. I should live in 
a garret, and do my own cooking and washing before I 
would be in debt ; and I advise you to get out, as fast as 
possible, at any cost.” 

‘‘ I wish I could ; and when my salary is raised, I ex- 
pect to ; but now I am obliged to manage every way to 
keep my credit good. There is what I have for you, 
Carl ; and believe me, I am sorry and ashamed that it is 
no more. 1 hope, however, that on the strength of that, 
and my promise for the future, you will buy an overcoat. 
Any dealer will be glad to give you credit.’’ 

‘‘ I am not disposed to put my credit to the test in that 
way. Besides, I never know what calls may be made 
upon me from home. I wonder if you appreciate your 
good fortune, Loren, in having such a correspondent as 
Noll. I have a long letter from him, full of news, and not 
a dull line in it. He is intending to do all the farm work 
this winter, besides studying Greek and Latin. He is to 
recite to Mr. Ellinwood.” 

“Then he will be sure to tell me all about it. And 
that makes me think that I have not answered his last let- 
ter. Did he say anything about it ? ” 

“ No. He asked me if I saw you often, and that was 
all ; but I know your silence grieves him. Write to him 
now this very evening. I have some studying to do, and 
you can write while I study. Here is plenty of room for 
us both at the table.” 

Loren Parsons could not well refuse to do this, and 
therefore it was that he accepted an irksome task. The 
letter written was by no means what it should have been 


172 


A Jolly Time, 

yet it would be highly prized. As it was folded and 
placed in an envelope, Carlton Briggs asked : 

“Are you expecting to take Edson's place when he 
leaves ? 

“ I expect it, of course. It will belong to me by right ; 
so I an) counting on a better salary. I suppose, then, 
if I follow the general rule, I ought to save something 
toward setting up housekeeping.” 

“ I suppose most young men look forward to having a 
home of their own.” 

“Very young men are likely to have such aspirations. I 
used to think more about it than I do now. A bachelor’s 
life is a jolly life ; and until I am richer than I am now 
it will suit me better than a life burdened with family 
cares.” 

“It is good for a man to have some cares, and feel that 
others are dependent upon him. Why, I should not care 
to live, unless my life counted for some one besides my- 
self. You have Noll and your Aunt Keziah ; two you 
can make very happy by just doing the best for yourself ; 
and, Loren, you would make them very wretched if you 
should disappoint their expectations.” 

Something in his companion’s manner had irritated 
Loren Parsons when they first met that evening, and this 
last remark called forth the exclamation : 

“What are you driving at ? Speak out the worst of it ! 
You look at me as though I had committed an unpardon- 
able sin.” 

“ Not unpardonable ; but, as a friend, I tell you that 
you are ruining youi chances of getting on in the v/orld,” 
replied Carlton Briggs. “ Men like Mr. Talbot keep a 
sharp lookout for those in their employ, and he knows 


A Jolly Time. 173 

that you are spending more money than your salary war- 
rants.” 

“ How does he know it ? Have you turned informer?” 
was responded angrily. “AVhat do you know of Mr, 
Talbot?” 

‘‘ I know that to-day he offered me Edson’s place.” 

“ He did ! He did ! And you did not ask for it ?” 

‘‘ I did not ; and what is more, I shall not accept it.” 

‘‘Why?” 

“ Because, in the long run, I can do as well to stay 
where I am ; and, besides, I hope to influence you to 
make yourself worthy of Mr. Talbot’s confidence. Change 
your habits. Give up the use of tobacco and all stimu- 
lating drinks, and do your level best, I.oren. Do that, 
and you can command any position you choose.” 

“ Say I am sorry, and promise to be a good boy all the 
rest of my life.” 

“ I know you are sorry, Loren, for some things you 
have done. Now, go to Mr. Talbot and have a plain 
talk with him. He appreciates your business talents, and 
would be glad to give you a better position if your habits 
were different.” . 

“You two seem to have discussed me thoroughly, and 
decided just how far I can be trusted. I ought to be very 
much obliged to you for your disinterested kindness.” 

“ Loren, do you think I would say a word to injure you 
in any way ?” 

“ I don’t think or care anything about it ; but I pre- 
sume you told Mr. Talbot I had borrowed money of you.” 

“ I did not. 1 have never spoken of it to any one, and 
never shall. I would give you that ten times over, and 
work extra hours to replace it, if I could only make you 
realize the danger to which you are exposed.” 


174 




A Jolly Time. 

I know what you mean/’ at length responded Loren 
Parsons a little sadly. “ I wish I had begun diflferently ; 
but it is hard stopping, and somehow it always falls to my 
lot to pay the heaviest part of the bills.” 

“ Keep away from places where such bills are likely to 
be incurred. Cut adrift from unsafe companions and 
assert yourself. Some have dropped out of your set 
within a year.” 

‘‘ Yes ; and gone down lower,” was replied with a shud- 
der. ‘‘There was Currier — a good-hearted, generous fel- 
low as you could find anywhere. He lost his place, and 
he told me yesterday he hadn’t had a square meal for two 
weeks. I gave him enough to pay for a good dinner, and 
I hope he enjoyed it. Moody has gone down lower yet ; 
but you don’t believe, Carl, I shall ever reach the point 
they have ? ” 

“ I hope not, Loren ; but I beg of you to take warning 
by their fate. I know Mr. Talbot is inclined to give you 
a further trial ; but you must not presume too far. Come 
to church and Sunday school with me, as you did when we 
were boys. It may not be very jolly, but it is very pleas- 
ant and very safe. Perhaps I shall never talk to you 
again like this ; but the more I think of what you have at 
stake, the more imminent seems your danger. What 
would you do if Mr. Talbot should dismiss you ?” 

“ Don’t mention it,” cried the young man, springing to 
his feet. “ I believe I should go and hang myself. 
Thank you for all you have said to me, and I will take 
care that Mr. Talbot has no reason to complain of me in 
future. Why, Carl, I am not going to sacrifice everything 
I hold dear. Think better of me than that, old friend.” 


CHAPTER V. 


THE CHRISTMAS LETTER. 

Far away the Christmas bells were chiming, but they 
chimed not for Carrie Lincoln. Young and talented, the 
brightest, sweetest girl in all the country round, she stood 
looking out upon a dreary waste of snow, thinking how 
like it was to her life. 

The barking of the house-dog roused her from her rev- 
erie. There was an arrival, and she was eager to know if 
the long-expected letter had come. 

‘^Nothing from the post-office, Carrie; but here is a 
package from Cousin Carl. It was in the box he sent to 
Uncle George. Every one of them had a present and a 
letter, and Mary said she guessed you had a book and a 
letter. Isn’t Carl splendid ? Fritz Hurlin and I talked 
about him almost all the way home. Fritz thinks as much 
of Carl as I do.” 

‘‘ I know they were always good friends,” replied the 
sister. 

“ Why shouldn’t they be ? They are a good deal 
alike in some things. Fritz is going to be somebody. He 
is going to. recite in Greek and Latin to Mr. Ellinwood 
with Noll Parsons. He told me about it. He has got all 
his books. I am glad of it. Aren’t you, Carrie ?” 

“ Certainly I am ; and I hope he will make a splendid 
scholar.” 

(175) 


176 


A Jolly Time. 

‘‘ He will. There is a good deal more to him than 
folks give him credit for, if he is homely and awkward. 
He is just the best to his old grandmother of anybody I 
ever heard of \ and if I was a girl, I should trust him a 
good deal sooner than I would some dandy fellow who 
thought more of himself than anybody else.’^ 

A warning glance from Mrs. Lincoln prevented further 
remarks upon this subject, and Carrie escaped to her 
chamber, where she opened the package, containing a 
book and a letter, as had been supposed. A tiny note 
fell to the floor, marked, “To be read in private,” and this 
she seized eagerly. 

Loren Parsons was unworthy of her regard, and she 
must learn to forget him. Carl would not have said this 
without sufficient reason, and, moreover, her own judg- 
ment confirmed his words. 

It was so kind in her cousin to send her just the book sure 
to please her, that his thoughtfulness made some amends 
for another’s neglect, and reminded her that life was still 
worth living. She was very proud, and now her pride 
came to her assistance. 

She took from her writing-desk some letters, every word 
of which she could repeat, and laid them upon the coals 
in the open stove which made her room such a delightful 
winter retreat ; and when they were entirely consumed, 
she read the bright, newsy letter Carl had written with a 
feeling of positive pleasure. Then she went below-stairs 
to join the family gathered in the sitting-room. 

“ Well, Carrie, what news from Carl ?” asked her father. 
“He seems pretty flush with his presents, but it wouldn’t 
be strange if he was doing without something he needs, for 
the sake of making other folks happy. We must all con- 


177 


A Jolly Time. 

tribute and send him something for New Year’s. Read 
his letter, so we can all hear it, if there isn’t any privacy 
in it. I want to hear from the boy. Sister Mary has had 
to work hard since her husband lost his health, but she is 
getting her pay for it.” 

‘^Is that all?” asked Burke, when the reading was 
concluded. 

“ You can see for yourself,” replied Carrie, giving him 
the letter, which was closely scrutinized to find some allu- 
sion to Loren Parsons. 

“ Mother, I wish you would invite Fritz Hurlin and his 
grandmother to come here to-morrow,” said Burke 
directly. ‘‘ They hardly ever go anywhere except to 
meeting. The turkey is big enough to go ’round.” 

“ If it isn’t, there will be enough of something else,” 
rejoined Mr. Lincoln. ‘‘Wife, if you and Carrie can 
manage it, we might make room for them at our table.” 

“ Of course we can manage it,” said Carrie. 

“ Burke can go over and invite them, this evening, and 
I will get up early to-morrow morning and make Christ- 
mas-cakes, such as Mrs. Hurlin used to make when she 
was a girl.’’ 

Two people were very much surprised at being invited 
to a Christmas dinner ; and then, to complete the party, 
it was decided to invite Aunt Kezie and Noll, so that there 
was no lack of guests for the day. 

“ We have had a splendid Christmas, haven’t we 
auntie?” said Noll, after their return home, 

“ We have had a very pleasant day,” was replied. 

It made me forget for a little while that I am an old 
woman.” 

“ Not a bit old, auntie. You don’t seem a bit old to 


178 


A Jolly Time. 

me. But wasn’t Grandma Hurlin happy, and don’t she 
think her Fritz is just the best of anybody?” 

“ He is the best of anybody to her, and Mr. Ellinwood 
says he has a very superior mind.” 

“ He knows a good many things I never heard any- 
body else talk about ; and, auntie, can’t we ask him and 
his grandmother to come here some day ? They wouldn’t 
mind sitting in the kitchen, because they only have a kitch- 
en at home. What a little bit of a house theirs is.” 

It is very small, and they have been very poor ; but 
since Fritz has been large enough to work, they live more 
comfortably.” 

“ And they will be more comfortable all the time. Fritz 
is a good scholar, besides being a good worker. He told 
me, to-day, he had been studying Latin all by himself for 
more than a year, so I shall have to work hard to keep 
up with him.” 

‘‘ He ought to be in advance of you ; he is so much 
older.” 

I know it ; he is just a month younger than Carrie 
Lincoln. When he first came to school, all the scholars 
made fun of him till Carl Briggs stopped them. He al- 
ways stood up for Fritz ; and I shouldn’t wonder if it was 
Carl that encouraged him to think he could go through 
college. He said somebody had, and it would be like 
Carl to do it. He is always trying to help somebody ; 
and, auntie, don’t you think that is the way to do ? ” 

“ Certainly it is.” 

Only, auntie, you shouldn’t do too much sometimes 
when people . don’t appreciate it, and won’t be helped 
by it.” 


A Jolly Time. 179 

“ I suppose there is a limit; but it is my way to keep on 
doing and hoping for the best.’^ 

Noll was silent for several minutes, and then said in a 
low tone : 

‘‘ I don’t much believe I shall ever have Carrie Lincoln 
for my sister, ’though I used to think Loren cared more 
for her than for anybody else in the world. I wish — But 
it is no use wishing. Fritz says wishing don’t amount to 
anything. You can sit and wish, with your arms folded, 
but it takes hard work and heavy blows to build a hou5Q 
or fell a tree.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE new-year’s PRESENTS. 

A HEADACHE Sent Lorcn Parsons to his room at an 
early hour, while a raging storm made it probable that no 
one would call upon him ; so he was left to his own de- 
vices. Two letters awaited perusal, but he was in no mood 
for reading them. 

The new year had made it necessary that he should 
take account of himself. More than the usual number of 
bills awaited payment, in addition to calls for the return 
of borrowed money. He was learning, to his cost, that 
jolly times are often purchased at a heavy price. 

He threw aside the bills, and opened Noll’s letter, in 
which he was soon interested, forgetting for the time the 
embarrassments which surrounded him. 

‘‘ Aunt Kezie and I are going to live in the kitchen all 
winter, and I am going to work just as hard as I can, so 
to save some money,” wrote the boy. “ I am going to 
study, too, and recite to Mr. Ellinwood. I have begun to 
plan how I can pay my way through college, but I won’t 
tell you about that yet. 

‘‘We had a splendid time, Christmas, at Mr. Lincoln’s. 
Mrs. Hurlin and Fritz were there, and they had a good 
time too. Fritz is a grand fellow, studying and working 
like a hero ; and I expect he is going to college. He and 
his grandmother are better off tnan they used to be. 

(i8o) 


i8i 


A Jolly Time. 

“ Carrie Lincoln grows handsome every day. She is 
going to recite in Greek and Latin with Fritz and me, and 
Mr. Ellin wood says if we don’t look sharp she will come 
out ahead. 

“Aunt Kezie is going to write to you, so I will leave 
the rest of the news for her.” 

It would seem that but little remained, since her letter 
consisted of a single item, having reference only to her- 
self and her nephew. She inclosed a check for a hundred 
dollars as a New-Year’s gift, which she trusted would 
remind him of her love and her desire for his welfare. 
Not a word of the economy which had made it possible 
for her to send this ; not a word of all she had previously 
done for him. 

Loren Parsons, selfish as he was, could not but acknowl- 
edge her magnanimity ; yet it must be confessed that he 
thought more of the relief the money would give him, 
than of the love which had prompted its bestowal. 

Carl Briggs was, perhaps, the last person he would have 
expected to see ; but it was Carl who came in with hearty 
greeting — the very impersonation of abounding health and 
cheerfulness. 

“ The same old coat ! ” 

“ The very same,” replied the visitor to this exclama- 
tion, as he threw aside a heavy shawl. “ I found it very 
comfortable as a protection from the storm, supplemented 
by an outer wrap. But I didn’t come out to-night to talk 
about my old coat. I have received a box from home, 
containing so many good things, I want to share some 
of its contents with you, and I have come to invite you 
to take supper with me in my room at your usual supper 
hour. We will have coffee, cold chicken, cream- biscuits, 


i 82 a Jolly Time. 

and, as the auctioneers say, other things too numerous to 
mention/^ 

“ Of course I will come, Carl. I should be delighted 
to share your supper. I hope you don^t think I blamed you 
for having an offer of the place I had counted on for my- 
self.’’ 

“ There was no reason why you should blame me.” 

I never did. It was a great disappointment. I don’t 
mind saying that to you ; and so long as I do my work 
faithfully and honestly, I don’t see why Mr. Talbot should 
trouble himself about what I do out of business hours. I 
am as honest with him as you could be. I have never 
taken a cent from him which was not my due, and I have 
never neglected his interests where I was responsible.” 

I believe you, Loren, and I presume Mr. Talbot has 
no doubt of your honesty ; but he looks with suspicion 
upon young men who spend money more freely than their 
salaries warrant, and who are known to be somewhat lax 
in their temperance principles.” 

‘‘ Mr. Talbot drinks wine. Why is it worse for me than 
for him ? ” 

“You must answer that question for yourself. You 
know all about it as well as I can tell you. For my part, 
I prefer a strictly total abstinence man for my employer.” 

“ Did you say that to Mr. Talbot ?” 

“ I did not.’' 

“ I wish you had. He might have seen that there are 
two sides to the question, and two parties to be considered. 
Why, Carl, I have had wine offered me in his house ; and 
I presume if he should give a supper to his clerks, this 
winter, as he has before, there would be wine upon the 
table. I hope you don’t think me a drunkard, Carl? I 


A Jolly Time. 183 

never drink much — only a little to keep others company 
and help along a jolly time. I don’t see any harm in it. 
I should feel as though I was tied to somebody’s apron- 
strings if I had promised never to drink anything stronger 
than tea or coffee.” 

“ Being tied to apron-strings is not a bad thing for a 
young man when a good woman wears the apron. For 
my part I am tied to several, and consider myself all the 
better for it.” 

“ What do you mean, Carl ? I never heard that you 
had a single flirtation in all your life. I thought you were 
altogether above and beyond that.” 

I am not talking of flirtations ; but there are my sis- 
ters and cousins, and, best of all, my mother, to whom I 
am bound by cords stronger than any apron-strings I ever 
heard of. I would not do anything to grieve or make 
them lose their confidence in me for the world. When 
my mother looks into my eyes, I want to be able to look 
back clear and steady.” 

“ That sounds just like you, Carl. But would you 
promise anything they asked of you ? ” 

‘‘ I should be very likely to, if it was in my power to 
keep the promise. If I can ever attain to my mother’s 
ideal of what a man’s life should be, I shall reach the ut- 
most bound of my ambition. But I must go. The storm 
is increasing, and I have no wish to encounter anything 
more severe than I faced on my way here. Here is a 
package for you which came in my box. I shall expect 
you to-morrow without fail. Good-evening.” 

.As Loren Parsons glanced at the superscription of the 
package, he tore it open with nervous haste, to find care- 
fully inclosed the plain gold ring he had given to Carrie 


184 A Jolly Time. 

Lincoln before leaving his country home. She was little 
more than a child then, but she had trusted him ; promis- 
ing to wear the ring for his sake until he should replace it 
with one more costly and elegant. 

His face flushed as he recalled the past, yet he experi- 
enced a sense of relief from what might sometime prove 
an irksome restraint. There was no one now to whom he 
considered himself in any way accountable. He could 
tide over the present, and the future must take care of 
itself. He would not look on the dark side. 

He must, however, make some acknowledgment of his 
aunt’s generosity ; and for once he did this in such a man- 
ner as flattered her with the assurance that her kindness 
was appreciated. 


CHAPTER VII. 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 

Carl Briggs had just taken his seat in the cars, when 
Loren Parsons came in, and, stopping to speak with him, 
said : 

‘‘ Where now ? I thought you never went out of the 
city except for a walk.” 

“ This is an exception to the rule,” was replied. I 
am going home for a two weeks’ vacation. Are you 
booked for the same place ? ” 

‘‘Not I. I have made a new business arrangement 
which takes me in quite another direction, and will keep 
me more closely confined than ever before. I don’t know 
when I can go home ; certainly not at present.” 

“ It is two years since you have seen your brother.” 

“Yes; and it maybe two years longer before I shall 
see him again. I suppose he has grown quite out of my 
knowledge ; so, two years, more or less, will make no dif- 
ference. You will see him and Aunt Keziah?” 

“ I intend to see as many of my friends as possible, and 
I count them among my friends.” 

“Well, give my regards to them, and to everybody else 
who inquires for me. If I accepted the situation offered 
me, I must do it at once, so I had no time for visiting. 
Now I must go forward into another car ; so good-bye 
and good luck to you.” 

(185) 


1 86 A Jolly Tvne. 

Good-bye/’ responded Carl Briggs, shaking heartily 
the hand extended to him, and thinking, as he did so, of 
the change a few months had wrought in one upon whom 
so* many hopes had been centered. 

His thoughts, however, were otherwise engrossed as 
he drew near home, and when there he forgot everything 
but his immediate famil}", who were overjoyed to see him — 
his mother claiming his first attention, and looking into 
his clear, blue eyes with the unspoken question he could 
so well interpret. 

‘‘ Yes, mother, I have kept my promise,” he answered. 

And my boy has come back to me?” she responded. 

‘‘Yes, mother.” 

“ Thank God for that. You have been put to the test 
and come off conqueror.” 

“ Through Christ, who has saved me,” added the son 
softly. 

“ Now let us have supper,” said the happy woman, soon 
after, as she seated herself at the table. “ I want you to 
try some of my cream biscuits and see how you like them. 
We will wait for further questions until by and by.” 

“ Then let us try the biscuits as soon as possible,” 
rejoined Mr. Briggs. “Uncle Amos and his wife will be 
here before long, and then there will be no chance for 
eating. They will have plenty of questions to ask.” 

“And I a plenty more,” responded Carl. “ I must im- 
prove every minute. It will take me some time to make 
the acquaintance of my young lady sisters whom I left as 
little girls.” 

“You didn’t expect us to stand still while you monopo- 
lized all the growing, did you ? ” asked one of his sisters. 

“ I didn’t expect ; but I have always thought of you as 


A Jolly Time. 187 

you were the last time I saw you. Father is looking in 
better health/^ 

‘‘And you, my son, are looking in as good health as when 
you went away. You are a true country boy after all.'^ 

This was the general verdict. His uncle said : 

“You have come back all right. I don’t knowhow 
much money you have saved, and I don’t care ; but I 
know you have saved your own self-respect, and that is a 
fortune to any young man.” 

The name of Loren Parsons was not mentioned that 
evening ; but the next day, when Carl Briggs was on his 
way to his uncle’s, Noll met him by the brook, where the 
shade was dark and dense. 

“ I am ever and ever so glad to see you,” cried the boy, 
throwing his arms around his friend and bursting into 
tears. “ I have been watching for you since early this 
morning. I thought you would go this way to Mr. Lin- 
coln’s, and I wanted to see you as soon as I could, so to 
have the worst over.” 

“Why, Ollie, I hope you didn’t expect anything bad of 
me,” replied Carl, gently, hit own eyes dim with gathering 
moisture. 

“ Not' bad of you ; but come and sit down on this flat 
stone, where we can talk after I get done crying. There, 
now, it is all over,” he said, when the sympathy of his 
companion had soothed and comforted him. I want to 
know about my brother, and you needn’t be afraid to tell 
me the very worst. He smokes, doesn’t he ?” 

Yes ; but so do most young men, and old men too.” 

“ He plays cards for winning, doesn’t he ? ” 

“ I think he does play cards, but that is a common 
practice among men, and women too.’^ 


1 88 A Jolly Time. 

“ He drinks beer and whisky and wine and champagne, 
doesn’t he ? ” 

‘‘ Possibly he does.” 

‘‘But don’t you know he does ?” 

“ I think he does.” 

“ So do I ; and I have been pretty sure of it for a long 
time. At first, it seemed as though it couldn’t be ; but I 
have read a good deal lately about the habits of young 
men, and I think he belongs to the fast set. He never 
wanted to sit down and have a cosy time with Aunt 
Kezie and me ; and after he went away, he didn’t write 
to us as he ought to. Do you know the name of the place 
where he has gone ? ” 

“ No ; he didn’t tell me.” 

“ Did he come to see you very often ? I know I am 
asking lots of questions, but I want to know all I can 
about him, and you might not think to tell me if I didn’t.” 

“ Loren has not been to my room since last winter, 
when I invited him to supper.” 

Was that when they all sent you such a big box of 
goodies and that nice traveling shawl ? ” 

“Yes, it was.” 

“ Does Loren owe you any money ? ” 

“ Not a cent. Why did you ask me that ?” 

“ Because he was always borrowing money of me when 
I had any, and he hardly ever paid me. I think Aunt 
Kezie sent him some money, last winter, but 1 don’t know 
certain, and I thought perhaps he kept away from you be- 
cause he was in debt to you.” 

“ That was not the reason at all, Ollie. He likes a jolly 
time, and my jolly times are different from his.” 

“ Of course they are, and so are mine. If Loren goes 



A Jolly Time. 189 

on as he has begun, he will be a drunkard, and one of the 
worst kind too.” 

‘‘ That is looking on the very darkest side.” 

I know it ; but it is the true side for him unless he 
reforms. I feel so sorry for Aunt Kezie every time I 
think how much she has done for him, and he has never 
done anything for her. She paid all his bills when he was 
away to school, and the bills were larger than they ought 
to be too.” 

‘‘Yet Loren never was guilty of any great misconduct 
when at school. He only wanted fun, as a good many 
others do. Don’t think of him as exceptionally bad, Ollie.” 

“ I don’t. I know there are a good many others as bad 
as he is. I never told anybody, Carl, not even Aunt 
Kezie; but I wrote I.oren a very long letter about three 
months ago, and I wrote so I was pretty sure of an an- 
swer. I wrote about his being all the brother I have, and 
how much I loved him, and how I was willing to do any- 
thing I could to help him. Then I wrote about his drink- 
ing and playing cards, and begged of him to give it up. 
I told him, too, that I prayed for him every day, and — ” 

Here the boy fairly broke down, but at last, with a great 
effort, he controlled himself, and said : 

“All the answer Loren sent was to -tell me to mind my 
own business, and not bother him with any more sermons. 
That hurt me dreadfully,” continued Noll. “ I cried, and 
cried, and cried, but I didn’t let Aunt Kezie know it. 
Somebody was sick, so she wasn’t at home much for a 
week, and I managed to keep k all to myself. Don’t you 
think it was bad for my brother to treat me so ? ” 

“ Indeed I do, Ollie, and I am very sorry ; but there is 
no way for you only, to bear it as bravely as you can.” 


1 90 A Jolly Time. 

Yes, Carl, I made up my mind to that ; and I don’t 
think Loren can ever make me feel so bad again, no mat- 
ter what he does. There is somebody coming, and I 
must huri^ back to my work, but I want to see you a good 
deal longer before you go away again. I am trying to 
make up my mind just what to do, and I shall feel ever 
so much better if I can tell you all about it.*’ 


CHAPTER VIII. 


NO MORE PREACHING. 

“ I AM not going to ask you how my nephew spends 
his money, or who are his chosen companions ; but I wish 
to know if, in my future arrangements, I ought to consider 
him,” said Miss Keziah Parsons, when opportunity offered 
for her to speak confidentially with Carl Briggs. ‘‘ I have 
seen too many others like him not to understand his 
weak points. I always feared for him, yet I determined 
to give him a fair start in the world.” 

‘‘ You have done your full duty by him,” was replied. 

Every one capable of judging must acknowledge that 
Loren is now quite able to provide for himself, and if any- 
thing will bring him to realize the responsibility of living. 
It will be some stern experience when he must rely entirely 
upon his own resources.” 

“ Then I must give him up and make no further at- 
tempts to reach him until he comes to me of his own ac- 
cord. Is that what you would advise ? You see, Carl, I 
presume upon your knowledge of his habits.” 

‘‘ I think it would do no good to attempt to reach him 
at present,” responded Carlton Briggs after some delay. 

“ Thank you. . I understand ; and I am glad to know 
the worst. When I can look a calamity fairly in the face, 
I know I can bear it.” 

“ You have Noll, Miss Keziah.” 

(191) 


192 A Jolly Time. 

‘‘Thank God, I have; and no one else knows what a 
dear, unselfish boy he is. I am learning to depend upon 
him in every way. Your cousin, Carrie Lincoln, says he 
has remarkable talents.” 

“ I think he has, and I hope he will be able to improve 
them.^’ 

“He shall have his chance. I am not past work yet; 
and, if necessary, the old farm can carry . another mort- 
gage. It is hard for me to have Loren what he is, but I 
am more sorry for Ollie than for myself.” 

Noll Parsons assured Carlton Briggs that he was more 
sorry for his aunt than for himself ; so there was no lack 
of mutual sympathy in a common sorrow. 

“ I am not going to worry myself any more about 
Loren,” said the resolute boy. “ I have thought it all over 
hundreds of times, trying to find a way out ; and now, if 
you are willing to hear it, I should like to tell you what I 
have made up my mind to.” 

“ I should be very glad to hear it,” replied his friend, 
gazing admiringly upon the face which seemed to have 
gained an expression of strength quite new to it. 

“ Well, I am not going to write to Loren again uriless 
he writes to me. I shall never preach to him any more 
either ; but I shall pray for him every day, and I think 
sometime he will be glad to have me help him: You 
never know what anybody will do who has begun as he 
has. I am going to do the very best I can for Aunt 
Kezie and myself; and I tell you, Carl, I shall have a 
good education. I would do anything, for I.oren that 
would make him better; but if he is determined to go 
wrong, it won’t make things any easier, for me to waste my 
life watching him and crying over him. At. first, I thought 


A yolly Time. 193 

I couldn^t study or work until he was different ; but I 
prayed myself out of that feeling.’^ 

There was the look of strength again. The boy was 
giving way to the man ; and as time went on, Oliver Par- 
sons grew constantly more cheerful and self-reliant, evinc- 
ing maturity of judgment, and fast relieving his aunt of 
out-of-door cares. 

To Fritz Hurlin he confided his personal hopes and 
ambitions, yet spoke never a word in regard to his brother. 
With Carrie Lincoln he was on such friendly terms that 
people sometimes said he had usurped his brother’s place 
in her regard ; yet the name of the absent one was never 
mentioned between them. 

Occasionally a letter came to the old farmhouse, written 
“ in haste,” containing but few lines, and by no means 
satisfactory, yet welcomed as proof that the recipients 
were not entirely forgotten. 

So five years passed, when Carlton Briggs and Loren 
Parsons, who had parted on board a railroad train, met in 
a strange city where both were transacting business. 

“What do you hear from Noll?” asked the former, 
after some desultory conversation. 

“ Nothing particular, only that he is well and prosper- 
ous,” was replied. “ I write to him occasionally, to let 
him know that I am alive, and he always answers me 
promptly ; but, as he grows older, his letters grow shorter. 
Have you seen him lately ? ” 

“ I saw him a few months ago.” 

“ What is he doing ; running Aunt Keziah's farm ? ” 

“ That is one thing he is doing ; but hasn’t he told 
you ? ” 

No ; he never says much about himself.” 


194 


A Jolly Time. 

He is in college,” 

“ He is in college ! Who pays his bills ?” 

He pays most of them himself, and your Aunt Keziah 
makes up the deficiency. She can afford to, too. He 
manages the farm to great advantage.” 

“Noll in college!” said I.oren Parsons musingly. 
“ It does not seem possible. How does he look ? Is he 
a fine scholar ? ” 

“Very fine, and he is very fine-looking. His friends 
are proud of him.” 

“ Well, I suppose I ought to be ashamed of not know- 
ing any more about him ; but the truth is, we have drifted 
a good ways apart ; and, besides, he and Aunt Keziah 
always seemed sufficient to each other. I think, every year, 
that another year, perhaps, I will make them a visit ; but 
when the time comes Vound, there is something else to 
take up my time and attention. In business for yourself, 
Carl?” 

“ In partnership.” 

“ At the old stand ? ” 

“ Yes ; I have never changed my quarters.” 

“ You are in luck, as usual. I believe in luck.” 

“I believe in Providence, and in reaping what you 
sow.” 

“ That sounds as natural as the tone of your voice, 
Carl. Well, I am glad to have seen you, and glad to 
have heard from Noll. I wonder he hadn’t told me he 
was in college. He must be twenty years old, ’though 
it don’t seem possible. I must send him a few dollars 
once in a while. I ought to be able to do that on my 
present salary ; yet I have found that the more one has, 
the more one must spend. Are you married, Carl ? ” 


A Jolly Time. 


^95 


Not yet.” 

‘‘ Engaged ? ” 

‘‘ I am happy to say that I am.” 

“ Well, I congratulate you, and would drink your health 
in a glass of wine if you would drink with me. I suppose 
you stick to your old pledge ?” 

‘‘I do.” 

‘‘ So do I to mine, and that is to get the most I can out 
of life. I am neitl:ker m2.rried nor engaged to be married ; 
but I manage to have a jolly time as I go along. You 
know I always looked on the bright side, and I am deter- 
mined to keep looki'ijf' *^^re.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


HANDSOME DRESSES. 

Grandma Hurlin and Aunt Keziah protested against 
the extravagance, and yet Mrs. Carlton Briggs was com- 
missioned to purchase two dress patterns of elegant black 
silk, with suitable trimmings. In addition to this, she was 
also requested to superintend the making of these dresses, 
that they might be both becoming and fashionable. 

As a result, the two ladies surveyed themselves and each 
other with wondering satisfaction. 

‘‘Why, Mrs. Hurlin, you must have been a handsome 
girl,” said Miss Parsons. . 

“ So must you, and you are not so old that you have 
lost your beauty yet,” was responded. “You ought to 
have worn handsome dresses all your life. Why, my dear, 
I should hardly recognize you as the same woman I have 
seen at work in your kitchen and superintending your 
farm.” 

“ If I had worn handsome dresses all my life, I should 
have no farm to superintend. I like to look as well as I 
can for Ollie’s sake ; otherwise it would make but little 
difference, although I always intend to have everything 
tidy.” 

“ You do have everything tidy, .and Ollie is the tidiest 
farmer in town. Fritz says he finds poetry in farming, 
and enjoys it. Nothing seems like drudgery to him.” 

“ Nothing ever did seem so to him.” 

(196) 


197 


A Jolly Time. 

Miss Keziah, he is a remarkable young man. Fritz 
says he is a great favorite in college, and everybody is glad 
that he has the valedictory. I am thankful they could go 
together. He has been a help to Fritz. I know the dif- 
ference between the boys. Miss Keziah, although I am 
satisfied with mine.*^ 

“ Well you may be, Mrs. Hurlin, aixd every one else who 
knows him is satisfied with him too. He is a genius.” 

“ He says he has a genius for hard work ; and when he 
comes home, he is just as ready to do for me as he used 
to be when he came home from school grieved because 
the scholars ridiculed him. We were poor then. Many 
a time I went hungry myself that Fritz might have more'; 
but he has paid me for it a hundred times over. There 
never was a time, 'though, Miss Keziah, when I hadn't 
money in the house. I began saving, as soon as Fritz and 
I were left alone in the world, to pay for his schooling. 
There have always been scholars in our family, and so I 
thought Fritz might be one. I planned for it from the 
first.” 

“ You hoped he would be a scholar ? ” 

‘‘I hoped, and then I didn’t, dear. There have been 
some going wrong in our family, and the best scholars have 
gone the farthest wrong. There was always beer and 
wine, and sometimes worse, with wild words and often 
wild deeds that brought sorrow. Ah ! Miss Keziah, 1 
know what drink does, and so does my Fritz, for I have 
told him. Since he could understand my words, I have 
taught him to hate it, and when he first left me for school 
I told him the story of our family. I told him, too, I 
would rather see him dead than to see him like his father, 
That was a hard thing to do. Miss Keziah.” 


xqS a Jolly Time. 

“ It must have been ; and I almost wonder you could 
bring yourself to say it.” 

“ Right is right, and the boys must not go to ruin if we 
can keep tliem back. No one warned me of danger, but 
I have warned my Fritz.” 

“ You were not always so poor, Mrs. Hurlin ? ” 

“ No more than many another. When one chooses a 
home, one must bide the chosen fate. I have had bless- 
ings all the way in friends God has given me, and now my 
Fritz makes up for all I have lacked before. Why, dedr, 
when he is at home he makes everything beautiful around 
me, and tells me how to make the best of it all, the same 
as if he was a girl, although he is so strong he can lift me 
like a baby. The woman who gets my Fritz for a hus- 
band will have no trouble he can keep from her.” 

“ Ollie says there is but one woman in the world for 
him.” 

I know about it, Miss Keziah, and so does Fritz, but 
he can bide his time. Not that he ever told me in words 
aught of it. It is not like him to tell another before he 
tells the one who should hear first from him. He has his 
way and his name to make in the world, so there is no 
haste.” 

“ But if another wins the woman he would choose ? ” 
Then by that token will he know she was not for 
him.” 

“ I hope there will be no such token, Mrs. Hurlin. You 
will have Fritz at home again for a few months.” 

“ Yes, Miss Keziah, and thankful I am for it, ^though . 
he will be by himself, studying and writing many hours each 
day. He says he shall have time then to finish the house 
and help Ollie about farming. But we started with oui 


199 


A Jolly Time, 

dresses, and have come out the same we always do. Our 
hearts always lead us back to our boys. I never know 
when to stop when talking of my Fritz. I hope Carlton 
Briggs will be here next week. It was he who gave Fritz 
the first start toward college, and he ought to be one to 
see the end of it.” 

“ The end of it is not yet, Mrs. Hurlin ; but Carles wife 
says he will be sure to come next week.” 

She is sure to know, and he never disappoints her. 
If there was ever a perfect marriage in the world it is that 
of Carl Briggs and his wife. It seems almost strange, too, 
that such a rich, beautiful girl, who could choose from so 
many, should have chosen him ; yet when she comes here 
she is like one brought up among us.” 

‘‘ I never could make her seem like a stranger.” 

‘‘No more could I, Miss Keziah ; and why should I? 
When she comes to my house she brings a glint of sun- 
shine with her ; and when she sits down beside me, I half 
think it is my own daughter, dead long ago. She is a 
happy woman, and her husband is a happy man ; and, do 
you know, Miss Keziah, she says she would never have 
married him if she had not known he was a strict tee- 
totaler.” 


CHAPTER X. 


A STEP LOWER. 

Loren Parsons read the letter to the end, then, glanc- 
ing around the apartment, smiled bitterly. His brothel 
was to graduate from college with the highest honors, and 
he was invited to be present. 

“ I wish to have all my dearest friends with me then, 
and long as it is since I have seen you, we are still 
brothers,” wrote the valedictorian. ‘‘ Fritz Hurlin and I 
are expecting quite a delegation of our towns-people, and 
I hope you will be of the number. 

“ I send you my photograph, thinking you may value 
it, and if I do not see you, as I hope, please send me 
yours. I wish to know how my only brother looks.” 

Fine - looking, indeed. Carlton Briggs had spoken 
truly, as Loren Parsons could not but acknowledge. The 
face was pure, strong, and self-reliant — not a trace of evil 
passion or evil habit. 

‘•Aunt Keziah’s own boy,” muttered the man who held 
the photograph in his hand. “ Wonder how I should feel 
at Commencement with such a strait-laced set ! No, my 
precious brother, you won’t see me or my photograph. 
One beauty in a family of two boys is enough, and you 
are welcome to the beauty.” 

He threw letter and phO‘tograph into the drawer of a 
rough table, and taking his pipe, began to smoke, that he 
(200) 


201 


A Jolly Time. 

might thus drive away the blues. He needed to think seri- 
ously, but serious thinking was utterly distasteful to him. 
He was still determined to look on the bright side, al- 
though it would be difficult for any one but himself to see 
a bright side to his life. 

He had lost the position which gave him a salary even 
he confessed to be generous, and the reason for this loss 
would count against him in the future, as it had in the 
past, unless he should reform his habits. He had been 
the traveling agent of a large liquor establishment, until 
his intemperance became too notorious to be longer toler- 
ated. 

His employers made no other complaint of him. They 
did not doubt his honesty. They certainly could not 
doubt his fidelity to their interests. He had greatly ad- 
vanced their prosperity, and they were sorry to part with 
him, yet felt constrained to dismiss him from their service. 
They treated him generously, giving him a quarter’s salary, 
and expressing the hope that he would learn to drink more 
moderately. 

He left the city at once, and going where he hoped to 
meet no one he had ever seen before, hired a room in a 
cheap lodging-house, taking his meals wherever it suited his 
convenience. He calculated carefully how long and how 
far he could indulge in cheap dissipation without becom- 
ing absolutely penniless. 

He was less fastidious than he had been when younger. 
If dime cigars were beyond his means, he could solace 
himself with a clay pipe and fine-cut ; if he could not 
afford to drink wine, he could be satisfied with whisky. 

He recognized the fact that he was fast sinking in the 
social scale, and he knew also that his few family friends 


202 


A Jolly Time. 

must be aware of this, although he had kept quite aloof 
from them. He cursed himself for his folly in writing 
to his brother, so making it possible to communicate 
with him. 

“ I must stop this thinking,*^ he exclaimed under his 
breath, with a fearful oath ; and going to a dingy cup- 
board took from it a flask of liquor, which, however, he 
quickly replaced that he might answer a summons to the 
door. Here he met a man, evidently several years his 
senior, and by no means his superior in manners. 

‘‘ I called to see if you had decided to accept my offer,’* 
said the visitor. ‘‘ I want to know what to depend upon, 
I have made you a good offer.’* 

“And I suppose I shall accept it,’* replied Loren Par- 
sons. 

“All right. Will you be ready for business in the 
morning ? ’* ; 

“ Yes ; I can be ready then as well as any time.’* 

“ I will close the bargain to-day, and we will meet in 
the morning.” 

“ To drink to our success, Yeaton ?’* 

“ Not so fast. Work first and drink afterwards. It 
won’t do to be too good customers at our own bar. We 
must keep a respectable place or the authorities will be 
down on us. We are going in for making money, and 
there is no reason why we shouldn’t do it. Liquor selling 
is the best paying business in the country. Everybody 
knows that ; and as long as Government is glad to get the 
revenue, there’s no need of being squeamish about it. 
We may as well take the profits ourselves, as look on and 
see others take them. I am just going to burn my ships, 
and march on to fortune, if not to fame.” 


A Jolly Time. 203 

‘‘ Fortune brings fame ; so, if one has enough of the 
former, the latter is sure to come.” 

Then we will try for both. You and I know the ropes, 
Parsons. We are good judges of liquors, and can furnish 
a variety at short notice. Meet me in the morning, and 
be sure you come sober. We must make a good show in 
starting, and a half tipsy man will spoil the best business 
that was ever thought of.” 

“Yes, I know it,” was replied mechanically, while the 
speaker seemed hardly conscious of the words thus uttered. 

As soon as Loren Parsons was alone, he took Noll’s 
letter and photograph from the drawer and placed them 
before him. He read again the letter, and studied long 
the fair, open face, with eyes which looked straight into 
his own. 

“ Noll, Noll ! ” he cried, in a smothered tone. “ Oh, if I 
had only kept close to .you, I should not be what I am 
now ! My God, have I come to this ! A partner in a 
retail liquor saloon, doing the drudgery for a paltry share 
of the profits ! Go to Commencement with Carl Briggs 
and his rich wife ! They are nothing to me ; Noll is 
nothing to me. I went in for a jolly time, and a jolly time 
it shall be to the end.” 

He sprang to his feet, seized the whisky-flask, drained 
it of its contents, and then threw himself upon the bed, 
where he was sure soon to forget all trouble in a drunken 
sleep. 


CHAPTER XL 


AN UNDERTONE OF SADNESS, 

The graduating exercises were all which had been anti- 
cipated — Oliver Parsons and Fritz Hurlin receiving the 
warmest congratulations of their friends. 

Grandma Hurlin was present — universally pronounced 
the most delightful old lady at Commencement ; Aunt 
Keziah, too, received her full share of attention, although 
she thought only of her boy, who was to her the imperson- 
ation of all nobility and truth. 

Mr. and Mrs. Carlton Briggs, with Miss Carrie Lincoln, 
who accompanied them, made quite a distinguished party, 
giving honor to whom honor was due, and adding much 
to the general happiness. 

The two who had stood side by side in their college 
course without thought of envy or rivalry, shared the con- 
fidence of all with whom they had been associated ; carry- 
ing with them from their alma mater the best wishes of 
students and faculty. 

If one seemed at times to outstrip the other, it had 
been little more than seeming, except in elocutionary 
power. There, Oliver Parsons bore off the palm from all 
competitors. 

Strong in argument, clear in logic, and with a voice 
modulated to every emotion of which the human heart is 
capable, he held his audience at his will. An undertone 

( 204 ) 


205 


A Jolly Time. 

of sadness, so often remarked, gave an added pathos to 
his words, and revealed to those who knew him best the 
sorrow and anxiety so carefully hidden from the world. 

‘‘ Carl, I must talk with you again about Loren,” he 
said, one afternoon when they were all at home, and the 
two were enjoying a stroll together. “ I am afraid you 
will grow tired of the subject ; but I never speak of him 
to any one else, except when I receive a letter from him, 
and then neither Aunt fcezie nor I care to say much. No 
one but myself knows it ; but the feeling that I slmll some- 
time need to use my utmost endeavors for Loren has been 
a powerful incentive to me to do my best in everything I 
have undertaken. I have learned much of the world in 
the last four years, and my brother is no exception to the 
general experience of young men who cut adrift from home 
influence. I believe I am prepared for anything which 
may transpire.” 

“ I would not allow myself to anticipate evil of my 
brother. There are thousands of men who live on, their 
own worst enemies for many years, and yet who never go 
beyond a certain point in their recklessness.” 

“ I know there are ; and there are thousands of others 
who finish their career with some terrible crime which con- 
signs them to punishment and infamy. This is what I fear 
for Loren. I do not know that my last letter reached him ; 
but if so, he did not choose to answer it. If you hear any* 
thing of him, Carl, I wish you would inform me.” 

“ I will, Noll, if the information will benefit either you 
or him.” 

‘L\nd if he ever applies to you for money, will you let 
him have it, charging the same to me, and trusting me to 
repay it ? ” 


2o6 


\ 


'A Jolly Time. 


“ I will let him have money if he asks for it, and if you 
are ever richer than I you can repay it.*’ 

“ That humiliates me, Carl. I do not expect ever to be 
richer than you, but I hope sometime to earn a com- 
petency. I shall commence the study of law in a few 
weeks.” 

“And I have no doubt you will become an able and 
brilliant lawyer. It shall be as you wish in regard to 
money. If Loren applies to me, I will render you an 
exact account of the matter, but you must not injure 
yourself for him.” 

“Why, Carl, I am willing to deny myself everything, 
except what is absolutely necessary for my health and the 
prosecution of my studies, that I may be able to help 
Loren. I can not live like a hermit or a beggar, because 
that would defeat my purpose. I must maintain a respect- 
able position in the world.” 

“You must do the best you can for yourself, Noll. 
That is your first duty. At present, I see no way in which 
you can materially assist your brother.” 

“ Neither do I. As Aunt Kezie says, he must go to the 
length of his chain. When he reaches the end, then will 
be my time. I used to think of him so much, imagining 
every kind of evil, that he haunted me like some frightful 
apparition from which I prayed to be delivered.” 

“And was your prayer granted ?” 

“At last it was. I am as solicitous as ever for his good, 
but I can think of him calmly. If he is kept from crime I 
shall be very thankful, yet that is more than I expect.” 

“ It is better not to expect evil.” 

“ But I must be prepared for it. To be forewarned is 
to be forearmed.” 


A Jolly Tiine. 207 

Has Loren ever sent you any assistance in the way 
of money ?” 

Not a penny. If he had, I should not have spent it 
on myself. It would have belonged to Aunt Kezie.” 

Have you managed to go through your college course 
without incurring any debt ? 

‘‘ I have. I have been obliged to work hard and calcu- 
late closely to do it ; but you know I have no ^extravagant 
habits any more than Frit^ Hurlin. We had no tobacco 
or liquor bills, and we were satisfied with plain, substantial 
board ; but we paid our full share of all necessary class 
and society expenses. At first we encountered some 
ridicule, because we determined to be on the side of law, 
order, and economy ; but as the shafts fell harmlessly, we 
were soon left to pursue our own course unmolested. 
Where principle is concerned, Fritz is as immovable 
as the everlasting hills, and I trust I am not easily 
tempted.’^ 

“ Fritz has developed wonderfully.’* 

“ More than you know too. He would make his mark 
in the world as a scientific man ; yet we hope some day 
to have a law office together. He says I can supply his 
deficiencies, and I am very sure that whatever I may lack 
he can more than supply. People are beginning to appre- 
ciate him and his grandmother too. Didn’t she look like 
some grand old duchess, dressed so elegantly, with soft, 
delicate lace about her neck and falling over her shapely 
hands ? ” 

“ She did, indeed ; and Gertie thinks she has noble 
blood in her veins. She never talks much of herself, but 
she told Gertie that the lace so much admired had be- 
longed to her great-grandmother.” 


208 


A Jolly Time. 

‘‘Wouldn’t it be strange if there should be a fortune 
waiting somewhere for Fritz ? I mean a fortune not of 
his own making* I am sure he will make a fortune for 
himself.” 

“ Why so sure ? ” 

“ Because he is largely gifted with what people call 
foresight. Then he seems to know by intuition if any 
venture is likely to succeed ; and if he wishes to accom- 
plish a certain purpose, he knows just where and how to 
work for its accomplishment. Oh ! if my brother was 
only like him, I would be content to live in the humblest 
plainest manner all my life.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


A HARD DRINKER. 

Carl Briggs had not been long back from his summei 
vacation when he received a letter from Loren Parsons 
asking for the loan of a few hundred dollars, and promis- 
ing to return it at an early day. 

He said that he was engaged in a lucrative business, 
but having no capital, he had been obliged to make such 
terms as placed him at the mercy of his partner, who was 
disposed to take advantage of his poverty. The loan he 
desired would change all this and give him an opportunity 
to retrieve his fortune. Not satisfied to make a plain, 
straightforward statement of his case, he humiliated him- 
self by an almost abject appeal to his old friend’s gener- 
osity. 

But for the promise to Noll, Carlton Briggs would have 
refused the loan ; now he had no alternative. Moreover, 
if it w'as not repaid, it would probably save him from all ^ 
further annoyance in that direction. 

He forwarded a check for the amount required, and in 
due time received an acknowledgment of the same, with 
a promissory note which had not the least commercial 
value. 

He heard nothing more from Loren Parsons until two 
years afterwards, when a mutual acquaintance enlightened 
him. 


(209) 


210 


A Jolly Time. i 

‘‘I stumbled upon Parsons one day in the most acci- ■ 

dental manner,’* said this acquaintance. “ He was stand- " 

ing in the door of a fourth-rate liquor saloon, and I looked . 

at him twice before I was sure of him. I called him by 
name, and he responded, although it was plain to be seen ^ 

that he wished me somewhere else. He has changed ' 

wonderfully. He used to be a good-looking fellow, but 
now he looks coarse and beery. He is very stout, with \ 

fat, puffy hands and watery eyes.” 

‘‘ That tells the story of his habits.” j 

“As plain as plain can be. I have not seen him before, 
since he left Talbot’s.” 

“ I have seen him but once. He was travelling for 
Dorson, an extensive liquor dealer. I did not know what \ 

his business was then, but he told me he had a large 
salary.” ' 

“ Dorson could afford it. I heard a man say, not long 
ago, that he had amassed a fortune. , Parsons understood 
business, and I wondered Talbot did not keep him. I 
knew he was a little fast, but Talbot is not a teeto- ' 

taler.” 

“ That is true ; but men like him tolerate in themselves 
what they condemn in others. A teetotaler is reasonably 
^ sure to have a clear head, while a liquor drinker is not 
always to be trusted.” 

“ True, Briggs ; and the worst of it is that a man who 
drinks liquor is continually changing base. He can not 
remain stationary ; he must advance or retreat. I retreated 
and saved myself. I had a good many jollifications with 
Loren Parsons and his set ; but I couldn’t afford to sacri- 
fice my chances in life for the sake of a few champagne , 

suppers, supplemented by crazy headaches and a depleted 


k 


21 I 


A yolly Time, 

pocket-book. So I swore off from drinking and smoking 
and have been better and happier for it ever since.” 

“ I never swore off, for I never began. I don’t know 
the taste of liquor ; and as for tobacco, I always de- 
tested it. But tell me more of Parsons. What is he 
doing ? ” 

‘‘ Running a liquor saloon. He was on his own prem- 
ises when I saw him. He was not inclined to say much 
about himself, but I judged there was a gambling-room 
connected with the saloon. He was well dressed, ’though in 
rather a flashy style ; said he had nothing to complain of,' 
and looked on the bright side. He asked me to drink a 
glass of wine with him, which, of course, I declined to do. 
He asked some questions about old friends, but he was not 
inclined to converse very freely. He referred to you as 
one who always had good luck, and said he was glad you 
had prospered so well.” 

Has he a partner ? ” 

“ He said he was alone ; got tired of partnership and 
bought out the whole concern. I wanted to preach him 
a sharp sermon on temperance, but I refrained.” 

‘‘ Preaching would have no effect upon him. He must 
be a hard drinker.” 

“ He is ; and I can not help thinking that, when I was 
with him, he felt his degradation keenly. He used to be 
as proud and fastidious as any one of us, but he has gone 
a great ways beyond that. I asked him if he was married, 
and he told me he was not ; said he preferred his free- 
dom, with a bachelor’s jolly life. Sometime, when he felt 
the infirmities of age coming upon him, he might marry 
and settle down, provided some rich woman was ready to 
furnish him with needed funds. He said this in a reckless, 


212 


A Jolly Time. 

mocking tone, as if he looked upon life as a farce and 
responsibility as a curse/’ 

“Yet, when he was young, he was quite a favorite with 
the girls.” 

“ That may be, Briggs ; but if any girl who admired 
him when he was younger should see him now, her admi- 
ration would be changed to disgust. He was to me almost 
revolting ; and if he keeps on in his present course, he 
will soon be unfit for the business in which he is now 
engaged, low as it is. He said he was making money.” 

“And, of course, he is spending it.” 

“ Exactly. He never was one to deny himself any grati- 
fication within his means. He invited me to dine with 
him, but I declined. When I left him, he asked me to 
call again, but I have no wish to see more of him.” 

“ I am glad to hear that things are no worse with him,” 
said Carlton Briggs. “ His friends are my friends, so that 
I shall never lose my interest in him whatever he may do.” 

“ If he lives, he will need all that his friends can do foi 
him ; and if he dies, may God have mercy on his soul.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


DYING FOR WHISKY. 

“ For God’s sake, give me a drink of whisky ! I haven’t 
a cent to my name, and I haven’t had a square meal for 
a month ; but I’m dying for a drink of whisky. Give it to 
me, and set me to any job you’re a mind to. I’ll do any- 
thing for whisky.” 

Thus did a ragged, filthy tramp address the keeper of a 
low saloon, his cringing manners and tremulous voice be- 
traying his abject wretchedness. 

“ Who are you ? What is your name ? ” was asked ifi 
reply ; and when no answer was received, these questions 
were followed by another : “ Is your name Currier ? ” 

“Yes, and yours is— is — Parsons. I wasn’t looking for 
my old friend. Parsons; but we never know who we are 
going to meet. You’ll, give me a glass of whisky, won’t 
you ? ” and the wretched man, thus begging for whisky^ 
drew a tattered sleeve across his bleared eyes. 

“ Come with me,” said the saloon-keeper, leading the 
way into the inner room, where, turning abruptly, and 
looking at his companion, he asked : ^ 

“ Is your name John Currier ? ” 

“ It used to be, but I haven’t heard it for so long, I 
had almost forgotten it,” responded the tramp after some 
hesitation. “ But for God’s sake give me some whisky. 
I ’m dying for whisky.” 

(213) 


214 


A yolly Time. 


“ More likely you are dying from having had too much 
of it; but stay here, and I will bring you some.” 

The whisky was of the vilest, yet the beggar was grateful. 

“ It isn’t like the champagne at Carney’s and Wilder’s; 
but that would be baby’s drink for me now,” he said with 
a sigh, which might be either of satisfaction or regret. 

It was John Currier. Loren Parsons was now sure of it 
beyond a doubt. 


“The world has gone hard with you,” he remarked 
with something like pity in his voice. 

“You may say that, Parsons, and not tell half the 
truth. I’ve been through almost everything, until now I 
don’t care what happens to me, if I can only get enough 
of some kind of liquor to drink. My God, what a thirst 
It is ! I’ve been near starved, but starving don’t count 
beside it. Couldn’t you, for old time’s sake, let me have 
another glass, and then get your pay out of me some way ? 

I am shaky now, but whisky will put life into me, so I can 
work/' 


‘‘ 1 will give you a good supper, with hot coffee. Why, 
man, you are half starved, and need supper more than you 
need whisky." 

I in used to starving, and I’d rather have whisky than 
supper any time. Maybe you’ll want it yourself some 
time when you won’t have anything to pay for it, ’though I 
hope you’ll never come to that. It’s the worst of anything. 
I know, for I’ve been through it all.” 

Loren Parsons w'as, for the moment, tempted to turn 
his back upon the wretch who thus confronted him with 
his possible future. He had never begged for whisky, but 
he knew enough of poverty to realize its bitterness. He 


A Jolly Time, 215 

knew, also, only too well, the torture of an intense long- 
ing for alcoholic drink. 

‘‘ Take a bath, Currier, and have on a decent suit of 
clothes,’’ he said at length. ‘‘ I can give you a better suit 
than you are wearing now.” 

God bless you for that, Parsons. You are the first 
friend I have seen for years. I used to dress well and 
live well ; but I won’t think of those days. It will drive 
me mad if I do. Can’t you give me some kind of a 
chance, so I can stay with you ? I won’t be particular 
what it is, if I can only have a shelter over my head, and — 
regular rations of whisky. I can’t live without whisky. I’d 
serve you faithfully. Parsons.” 

‘‘ I will keep you for the present,” responded Loren 
Parsons. ‘‘ Go in there,” he added, pointing to a room 
little larger than a closet, but which contained conven- 
iences for bathing and dressing. “ I will bring you a suit 
of clothes, and I want you to make yourself as presentable 
as possible. I will have supper ready for you when you 
come out, and after that you can rest. You must be 
tired.” 

‘‘ Tired ! ” repeated John Currier. ‘‘ I’ve been so long 
on a tramp, I don’t know as I am ever tired. I’ll do as 
you told me, if you’ll lend me a razor.” 

“ You’ll find one in the room,” replied the saloon- 
keeper, and hastened to bring a suit of clothes, which he 
had long before outgrown, and which he rightly judged 
would fit his old companion. 

Then he ordered supper from a neighboring restaurant 
giving orders that the coffee should be very strong, with 
plenty of sugar and milk. He spread the table himself, 
really making an effort to have it attractive to his guest. 


2i6 


A Jolly Time. 

For some reason his heart warmed to this man, who 
had gone down even lower than himself. It was so long, 
too, since any one had asked a real favor of him, that it 
gratified his pride to bestow a gift in charity. Another 
feeling, also, had its influence. He knew there might 
come a time when he should need a friend upon whose 
faithfulness he could rely in any emergency. Currier 
could be made useful, remaining constantly on the prem- 
ises and ready for any service. 

This was the bright side ; but that there was a dark 
side could not be denied. A man who had tramped for 
years could hardly be expected to have a record for hon- 
esty ; and, moreover, it was impossible to calculate to 
what desperation his appetite might drive him. 

“ Parsons, how are you ? ” exclaimed the person under 
consideration, coming into the presence of his benefactor. 

I declare, I hardly knew myself when I looked in the 
glass. I couldn’t get rid of the old, grizzly hair ; but if it 
wasn’t for that, I should almost think I was young again. 
Dress does a good deal for a man ; there’s no denying 
that.” 

“It has improved you wonderfully, Currier. Now sit 
down to your supper and enjoy it.” 

The guest waited for no second bidding. He ate vora- 
ciously, like one long unused to a plentiful supply of food ; 
drinking cup after cup of coffee, until at last he said 
huskily : 

“ May God bless you for your kindness to an outcast. 
Now what can I do for you ?” 

“ Nothing to-night. I am going to give you a place to 
sleep, and in the morning we will see what we can do.’^ 


217 


A Jolly Time. 

I could sleep better if I had a glass of whisky before 
I go to bed. You’d miss it yourself, wouldn’t you, if you 
didn’t have it ? ” 

No reply was made to this question, but the whisky was 
brought, and presently John Currier was sleeping soundly 
in a rough, dirty apartment in one corner of a shed. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


MURDER. 

The telegram received by Oliver Parsons from Carlton 
Briggs consisted only of three words : “ Come at once.’* 
Yet he understood its full import. 

“ I must leave on the next train,” he said to his partner, 
Fritz Hurlin, who was sitting on the opposite side of the 
table from him, writing busily. 

“ Shall you be gone long ? ” was asked in reply. 

“ I can not tell. Loren is in trouble somewhere. I 
don’t know where or how ; but Briggs knows, and I must 
see him as soon as possible. I am sorry to leave you with 
so much work on your hands, but I must go.” 

‘‘ What do you expect ? ” 

“Anything. Pray for me, Fritz, and, if need be, come 
to me.” 

“ Count on me to the end, Noll, and draw on the funds 
of the firm as long as there is a dollar left.” 

There were short consultations upon important matters, 
and hurried arrangements of business ; Oliver Parsons 
meanwhile mindful of Aunt Kezie, who was his especial 
charge. 

“ Don’t let her know there is any trouble,” he said 
earnestly. “ It must be kept from her as far as possible. 
I expected the summons sooner ; and as long ago as when 
I first went to college, I began to save money for Loren 
(218) 


219 


A Jolly Time, 

Now, if he has been unfortunate, I will help him ; if he 
has committed a crime, I will do the best I can for him 
conscientiously.” 

It was midnight when the young lawyer reached the 
city in which Carlton Briggs resided ; but this friend was 
waiting for him at the depot, and with, I knew you 
would come,” grasped his hand and led him to a carriage. 
The drive was short and silent, no other word being 
spoken until they stood in the hall of the elegant house 
Carlton Briggs called “ home.” 

“ Supper first and business afterward,” he then said. 
‘‘ Gertie and Carrie are both up, and expecting to see 
you.” 

They knew why he had come ; yet, when they met 
Oliver Parsons, they made an effort to greet him cheer- 
fully. 

“ You are always welcome, at any time of day or night,” 
was the flattering assurance of his hostess. “ You will 
have supper ? ” 

‘‘A cup of strong coffee, if you please,” he replied; 
and although seated at a table spread with tempting 
viands, he declined to eat. “It is impossible,” he re- 
sponded, as the necessity of this was urged upon him. 

“ Then we will go to the library,” said his host ; and 
presently they were standing face to face in a room of 
which they were the only occupants. 

“ Is it the worst ? ” asked Oliver Parsons, in a lovi 
tone. 

“ It is murder,” was replied. 

With robbery ? ” 

“No.” 

“Thank God for that.” ' ' 


220 


A yolly Time. 

‘‘ Was it with malice aforethought ? 

‘‘ I think not” 

‘‘ Is there positive proof that Loren is the guilty party ?’ 

“ Only circumstantial, so far as I know. I read a notice 
of the murder in a daily, and wrote at once to a gentle 
man residing in the city where it transpired, asking him to 
ascertain the facts in the case and report to me. There is 
his letter, which you can read for yourself.’* 

“ I have visited the scene of the murder, and the facts, 
as I have learned them, are these,” wrote the gentleman, 
adding : 

There was a quarrel over a game of cards, one party 
accusing the other of cheating ; and as all engaged had 
been drinking freely, the excjtement ran high. Words were 
succeeded by blows, and in the confusion two shots were 
fired, one inflicting a fatal wound. The victim was in hot 
altercation with Parsons at the time, and it is supposed 
that, in the anger of the moment, the deed was done. 

Parsons maintains his innocence ; but he is a hard- 
looking customer, and circumstances are strongly against 
him. The only pity seems to be that the whole crowd 
were not killed and the ricketty old house burned to the 
ground.” 

‘‘ I must see Loren as soon as possible,” remarked the 
brother, after reading this communication. “ I believe I 
can judge from his own words and appearance whether 
he is guilty. If innocent, I will clear him ; if giulty — ” 

Here the speaker paused, and covering his face with 
his hands, remained silent for several minutes. When he 
spoke again, it was to say : 

“ Can you tell me the earliest possible minute when I 
can be on my way ? ” 


221 


A Jolly Time. 

‘‘A train leaves in an hour, and I have already made 
arrangements for you to leave then, if you wish. I will 
go with you, too, if I can assist you.” 

“ Thank you, Carl, but I will go alone. You can pray 
for me. That is what I asked of Fritz. I shall need the 
prayers of all my friends.” 

“ Fritz is working hard ?” 

“As ever; but he can afford to work. He is the hap- 
piest man I know, and he has reason to be happy. A 
man who can win the love of such a woman as Carrie 
Lincoln may count himself rich beyond measure. And 
to think, Carl, there was a time when 1 hoped she would 
be my sister. But I must not look back. With so much 
before me, I can not afford to do it. There are not many 
women like your Cousin Carrie ; yet Fritz is worthy of 
her.” 

“ There are no women better than she ; but I expect 
your wife will be as good, Noll.” 

“ Don’t speak of it, Carl. I may never have a wife. 
My first care must now be for my brother.” 

“ You must not undertake more than is your duty.” 

“ I shall not, unless I am mistaken in my estimate of 
duty. It is different with me now from what it was before 
I had acquired my profession. Aunt Kezie is well pro- 
vided for, and my personal expenses can be reduced to a 
very small amount. Since we opened our office, we have 
done much better than we expected ; so that ultimate suc- 
cess is only a question of hard work. In any event, there 
is a prospect that Fritz will be independent. He is one 
of three heirs to a large property, and has already taken 
the necessary legal steps to secure his rights. He cares 


222 


A Jolly Time. 

little for riches for himself, but I know it will be a delight to 
him to surround the woman he loves with every luxury, 
Carl, I envy you none of your possessions ; yet I some- 
times wonder why the brother I loved so well could not 
have been something better than — a — drunkard.’* 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE DARK SIDE. 

For once there was no delay on the part of the law. 
The suspected murderer had no influential friends to in- 
terfere in his behalf, and he was indicted for the crime of 
which he was accused, notwithstanding his continued 
protestations of innocence. Currier, who had been a 
faithful servant, was ready to make any sacrifice for him, 
yet this availed him nothing. 

Committed to jail, where he was forced to abstain from 
all stimulants, he experienced such tortures as no pen can 
describe. Alone with himself, he could neither ignore the 
past nor remain indifferent to the future. 

He thought of his old-time friends, numbering them 
one by one, and questioning who of all would come to 
his rescue. He must be rescued, or his doom was sealed ; 
and yet it sometimes seemed to him he would rather die 
the most ignominious death than have his degradation 
known. 

At length the door of his cell was opened to admit a 
visitor, who asked : 

“Are you my brother, Loren Parsons 

“ Gracious heavens ! is it Noll ?” he said in reply, 

“ It is Noll, and you are — ” 

“ I was your brother, but I am not fit to be youi 

(223) 


224 


A Jolly Time, 


brother now. I am not guilty of murder, though. Why, 
bless you, Noll, I never ov»med a |)istol in my life. If 1 
had any fighting to do, I did it with my fists. Burns and 
I had some high words, but I wouldn’t kill a man for 
that. We had both been drinking whisky, and didn’t see 
things alike. That was all there wnb to it. But I don’t 
suppose all I can say will do any good. There won’t any- 
body believe me, and 1 am too poor to pay a lawyer for 
defending me. So 1 can expect nothing better than — I 
can’t say it ; I won’t say it. How is Aunt Keziah ? Does 
she know ? ” 

‘‘ She knows nothing of your arrest. She is very well, 
and living comfortably on the income of her farm. She 
has rented it to a good man, who, with his family, occupies 
a part of the house.” 

“And you, Noll, what are you doing?” 

“ Fritz Hurlin and I have opened a law-office.” 

“ You and Fritz Hurlin, lawyers ? ” 

“Yes; and I have come here to offer myself as your 
counsel.” 

“ O Noll, God bless you for that. It is more than I 
deserve from you ; but, as God hears me, I am not a 
murderer.” 

In the interview which followed, this assertion^ often re- 
iterated, carried with it a conviction of its truth. 

“ Noll, couldn’t you bring me a glass of whisky the next 
time you come ? ” asked the prisoner, with averted face, 
as they were about to separate. 

“ Whether I could or no, I will not,” was replied. “ It 
is whisky which has brought you where you are, and if I 
could prevent it, you would never taste another drop of 
the accursed stuff. I have no wish to upbraid you for tlu? 


i 


225 


A Jolly Time. 

past, Loren ; but you know, as well as I, what has wrought 
your ruin. Pray God to forgive you, and help you to con- 
quer your appetite for strong drink.” 

Convinced that his brother was suffering from an unjust 
accusation, Oliver Parsons lost no time in acquainting 
himself, as far as possible, with every detail of the murder. 
He visited the old saloon, examining the premises with 
the utmost care, asking questions of all with whom he 
came in contact, and noting the discrepancies in their 
statements. With Currier, who still occupied the room 
in the shed, he had many long conversations, each tend- 
ing to strengthen his conviction of his brother’s innocence. 

The pistol, from which the fatal shot had been fired, 
could not be found. It was hastily assumed that Parsons 
had concealed it, although several witnesses were ready 
to testify that he had no possible opportunity for doing so. 
The evidence against him was based more upon his gen- 
eral character, than upon any positive knowledge of the 
affair in question. 

The strain upon the young lawyer’s powers of endur- 
ance was terrible, yet he did not relax his efforts to dis- 
cover some clue to the guilty party. All in vain, however ; 
and a week before the time appointed for trial, he left 
to consult with his partner ; returning in season to make 
some last arrangements, and finding, as he had feared, that 
he must depend upon his own ability and eloquence. 

It would be useless to linger over the details of the trial. 
The prosecuting attorney presented the case, a jury was 
impaneled, and witnesses called. Before the first day 
was over, Oliver Parsons had won the confidence and 
respect of all who saw him. When he made the closing 
plea for the defense, he carried with him judge, jury, anc 


226 


A Jolly Time, 

spectators. The jury brought in a verdict of “Not guilty/' 
and the prisoner was once more free. 

He would have rushed at once from the courtroom^ 
had not his brother laid a detaining hand upon him, say- 
ing, in a low voice : 

“You will go with me. You owe me something for 
having saved your life, and I insist that you go with me. 
There is a carriage waiting for us.” 

So they went out together, these brothers ; one, the 
acknowledged peer of the most gifted and cultured ; the 
other, branded as a drunkard and gambler of the lowest 
type. They entered a carriage and were driven to a 
hotel, where supper was served for them in a private 
room. 

In all his intercourse with his brother, it had been diffi- 
cult for Oliver Parsons to realize their relationship ; more 
difficult still to presume upon this relationship as forming 
a bond of sympathy between them. He had struggled 
hard against the feeling of aversion which at times almost 
overpowered his will ; and he knew, also, that this feeling 
was mutual. Yet he had a duty to perform. 

“ Loren, what do you propose to do ? ” he asked, when 
sure that no one would intrude upon their privacy. “ It 
is not too late for you to start anew/’ he added, when no 
response was made to his question. 

“ You talk like a baby,” cried the man thus addressed 
“ You don’t know anything about it. You are a splendid 
fellow, and I should be proud of you if there was enough 
left of me. But you see what I am. No, you don’t see, 
either, for the worst is out of sight. It’s no use trying to 
make believe, Noll. You and I were born brothers, and 
I had a fair chance in the world ; but I thre\v my chance 


227 


A Jolly Time. 

away. I threw’’ it away. You don’t know what that 
means, but I know all about it. You are going up and I 
am going down. On the way we have crossed each other’s 
tracks.” 

‘‘ Let it not be a mere crossing of tracks,” responded 
the younger brother. “ I am ready to help you, if you 
will only help yourself.” 

“ Help myself, Noll ! Let me tell you how it is with 
me. I would rather live in my old saloon, vile as every- 
body has sworn it was, widi plenty of whisky to drink, than 
live in a palace, the possessor of millions, without the 
whisky. I must go my own way, Noll, and you can’t help 
it. No use preaching. I always hated it. I thank you 
for all you have done for me, and the sooner you forget 
me the better it will be for us both.” 

Perhaps Oliver Parsons was prepared for even this. 
Certain it is that he offered no further remonstrance, 
although he made provision for his brother’s support. 
When satisfied that he could do nothing more, he returned 
to his business, with a deeper hatred for the drink which 
curses the world. 

Three months later Loren Parsons was arrested as a 
common drunkard, and died in the station-house of delir- 
ium tremens. 

Thus ended the career of one who bartered everythinc 
which makes life worth the living, for — “ a jolly time.’* 









% 



« « 



THE WORKING-MAN’S LOAF. 

f ^ 





i 

J 





THE 


WORKING-MAN’S LOAF. 


CHAPTER I. 

LEARNING ECONOMY. 

“I HAVE Started the fire for you/' said Robert 
Winter to his sister Mary, who had come home only 
the night before, after a five years' absence in the 
country. I thought you wouldn't know where to 
find things ; Though generally there aren't many 
things to find." 

‘‘ Where is father ? I thought I heard him before 
I came down," responded the young girl who was 
already discouraged at the prospect before her.^ 
Gone after his beer." '' 

Beer ! Does father drink beer ? " 

Guess you'd think so, if you knew as much about 
it as I do. He always goes for some before break- 
fast ; then he takes another mug on his way to the 
shop ; another after dinner, and I don't know how 
many more." 

It must cost a good deal of money." 

‘‘ Of course it does. Men who sell beer sell it for 
money, and I think it is pretty mean to spend §0 
much for what a man can do without better than 
not, and then be always complaining of how much 


232 The Working-Mans Loaf. 

it costs to support a family. I hope you can make 
things different, but mother can’t; and she is all 
discouraged. She didn’t send for you as long as 
she could do the work. She hated to have you come 
to such a poor place.” 

Never mind that, now, Robert. Tell me where 
the coffee is.” 

‘‘ I know where it ought to be, but half the time 
there isn’t any, the same as now.” 

Then bring some tea,” 

“ Father don’t like tea.” 

What will he drink with his breakfast ? ” 

‘‘Nothing, and make up with beer afterward.” 

“ Is there any meat to be cooked ? ” 

“No; we don’t have meat for breakfast, and I 
don t know of anything in the house to eat, except 
some bread and butter. The bread is pretty dry, 
but perhaps father’ll bring a fresh loaf when he 
comes back.” 

“ I could make a nice toast if I had some milk.” 

Not a drop in the house. We used to have a 
milkman come every day, but since we moved here 
we buy it at the corner store, when we have any. 
There comes father. You can ask him for money 
to pay for some milk, if you want to, and I will go 
for it.” 

Upon the request being made, Mr. Winter fumbled 
in his pockets, and at last gave Mary pennies to buy 
a pint of milk, saying a little sharply : 

“We can’t afford^to use milk as they do at your 
Uncle Daniel’s. You’ll have to learn economy, if 
you are going to live with us.” ‘ 


233 


The Workmg-Man s Loaf. 

Why, father ; Aunt Rachel is the most eco- 
nomical woman in town, and she has taught me her 
way of doing things,” answered Mary. “ I don’t 
think you will have any reason to complain of my 
extravagance.” 

Well, well, child, I didn’t mean to blame you ; 
only money comes hard, and we must be careful 
how we spend it.” 

Fortunately, there was plenty of butter for the 
toast, and enough was saved from the scanty pint of 
milk for Mrs. Winter’s tea. Mr. Winter ate his 
breakfast in silence, and was hurrying away when 
his daughter said to him : 

I suppose you will send home something for 
dinner.” 

I sha’n’t have any time to see to it,” he replied ; 
adding, as he threw down a quarter: ^‘You must 
make that go as far as you can for dinner. I guess 
the last potatoes I bought are all gone, so you must 
look out for some.” 

Before Mary had time to think what she could do 
with so small an amount, her younger brothers 
came down, clamoring for breakfast. More toast 
was made, leaving only two slices of bread for her 
mother and herself. Then the boys rushed out, and 
she was left alone. 

Presently her mother called, and she went into 
the little bedroom, looking as cheerful as possible, 
that she niight not add to the burden she wished to 
lighten. 

I will bring you a cup of tea and some toast, 
and then perhaps you will feel able to come into 


2 34 'The Working-Man s Loaf. 

the kitchen and tell me what you would like to have 
me do to-day,” she said, after listening to com- 
plaints of wakefulness and a severe headache. 

Do anything you please, only don't trouble me 
about it,” was replied. “ I am so tired, trying to 
do with nothing, that I don’t care much what hap- 
pens, if I can only rest. It is hard for you, child ; 
coming from your Uncle Daniel’s, too, where they 
have enough of everything. I hope you won’t blame 
me for sending for you.” 

‘‘No, mother. I shall be glad if I can help you, 
but I don’t know what there is in the house to do 
with.” 

“There isn’t much of anything. That is the 
trouble, child. Your father used to be a good pro- 
vider, when we were first married; but he has 
changed. I don’t want to find fault with him. I don’t 
suppose I have done as well as I might, but I am 
clear discouraged. Have you learned to cook ? ” 

“Yes, mother. Aunt Rachel was sick, last year, 
and I did all the cooking for more than three 
months.” 

“You had enough to cook with.” 

“Yes, mother; but Uncle Daniel and Aunt 
Rachel are obliged to be economical in everything. 
All the boys want to go to college, and Uncle Daniel 
says if they do, money must be found under every 
stone on the old farm.” 

“ They have four boys, the same as we, and your 
father says our boys must go to work to earn their 
own living.” 

“ I thought father earned good wages.” 


235 


The Working-Maris Loaf. 

‘‘ He does. He earns enough to send you all to 
school, and provide all we need. But I won’t sa)^ 
any more about it. You will find it all out for your- 
self before you have been here a great while. I 
hope you will manage better than I have, and per- 
haps your father will hear to you more than he has 
to me.” 

But if you and I should try together, mother.” 
can’t try,” interrupted Mrs. Winter. ‘‘If I was 
fit to die, I should wish I was dead and out of the 
way.” 

“ Think of the boys ; how much they need you.’ 

“ I have thought of them until I am almost crazy* 
They are running wild, and I can’t help it. They 
were good little boys, but they are all wrong now 
Robert learned to read when he wasn’t much more 
than a baby, and I was so proud of him, I calculated 
he would make a grand scholar.” 

The mother’s face lighted up with something like 
animation, while talking of her boys as they had 
been; but when recalled to present necessities, she 
only reiterated her inability to meet the demands of 
the hour. 

“ If you have twenty-five cents, you have more 
than I have had for a long time. You must make it 
go as far as you can,” she said at last, sighing 
wearily. 

It was some relief to Mary when she found that 
the tea and toast she had prepared were evidently 
relished; yet when she returned to the kitchen and 
saw the disorder around her, she began to weep. 
She knew not what to do. How she longed for 


236 The Working-Man s Loaf. 

some one to advise and comfort her ! Just then, as 
if in answer to her wish, while tears were streaming 
down her cheeks, a neatly dressed old lady opened 
the kitchen door and came in. 

‘‘I am one of your neighbors, and I wanted to 
see you,” said the visitor cheerily. “ I knew your 
mother was expecting you, and I thought, may be 
you would be glad to see ^ven an old woman like 
me. I hope you aren't home-sick.” 

I am afraid I was, but you look so much like one 
of Aunt Rachel's neighbors, I think my home-sick- 
ness will go away. I can't tell you how glad I am 
you came,'* responded Mary. 

I am glad, too. I had a daughter by the name of 
Mary, and the glint of her hair was like yours. I 
am always looking to find one like her. She and 
her father left me the same week, and I have missed 
them ever since ; 'though there was never a better 
boy than my Ernest. Ernest Landaff is his name, 
and I am Mrs. Landaff. I was on my way to market. 
I thought perhaps you would be going out to buy 
your dinner.” 

I don't know how to buy a dinner. I have only 
twenty-five cents for everything. It is all different 
from what it was at Uncle Daniel's, and mother 
says she can't help me. I don't know how to begin.” 

What have you in the house ? ” 

little tea and some butter. It took all the 
bread for breakfast, and there isn't any flour.” 

Then we must get some corn-meal. I will show 
you how to make good cakes with no better mixing 
than hot water and salt. You must have some cof 


The Working-Man s Loaf. 237 

fee, with sugar and milk, for your father; then a few 
potatoes and some bones for a soup. You won’t 
have that ready until supper, but it will be some- 
thing to look forward to, and most men are willing 
to take soup for supper. You won’t mind my tell- 
ing you that men and boys are more likely to stay 
at home if things are made tidy and pleasant for 
them. If your father sees that you do well with 
twenty-five cents, he may give you more to-morrow; 
and as soon as you can, it will be best for you tr> 
buy in larger quantities. Get the boys on your 
side, and you can do almost anything.” 

“ Do you believe I can ? ” asked Mary. 

Yes, if you start right. Do your best, and ask 
God to bless your efforts,” was replied. 

Oh, Mrs. Landaff, you are a Christian; I know 
you are, or you wouldn’t have said that. It is the 
first Christian word I have heard since I came here. 
It is all so different from what it was at Uncle 
Daniel’s.” 

“ But remember, my dear, you can pray, as well 
here as there, and you can keep your hands busy at 
the same time. Your mother has been so poorly, it 
is no wonder the work has gone behind. If you 
have only corn-cake and butter for dinner, it will be 
relished better if your table is set neatly. You know 
how to do that.” 

“Yes, ma’am, I do, and I will try to make the 
room so pleasant, mother will be glad to see it.” 


CHAPTER IL 


CORN-CAKE AND MILK. 

Well, well, Mary, this looks comfortable,’' said 
Mr. Winter, when he came in to dinner. “ The cof- 
fee smells good too. And corn-cakes, I declare. I 
haven’t seen any on our table for years.” 

I hope you will like them,” was responded. 

“No trouble about that. Here, Robert, go for 
two quarts of milk, and we will have an old-fash- 
ioned dinner. Don’t stop on the way.” 

Robert was soon back, and everybody praised the 
dinner, except Mary, who found it impossible to eat 
a single mouthful. 

“ Soup for supper, did you say ? ” remarked her 
father, as he was preparing to leave the house, after 
she had told him of her marketing. “ I never imag- 
ined a quarter could be made to go so far; but you 
will need money to buy some bread.” 

He threw down a dime, and when he had gone, 
Robert said : 

“ I can get ever so much broken bread for ten 
cents. It is just as good as the loaves, only it is 
broken.” 

“ Then get it ; and while you are away, I will 
make a cup of tea for mother. Perhaps we can per- 
suade her to come out here to drink it.” 

“I wish you would. Mother has had a hard time. 

(238) 


The W 07 ' king-Man s Loaf. 239 

I am old enough to know that, but it doesn’t make 
things any better, to complain and not try.” 

No, Robert, it doesn’t. I am going to try, and 
I want you to help me.” 

I will. I am not the worst fellow in the world, 
and may be, if you should take me in hand, you 
might make something of me.” 

There was a quiver in the boy’s voice as he said 
this, and a tear in his eye as he hurried from the 
room ; leaving Mary to wonder at what had tran- 
spired. She was thankful the dinner had proved a 
success ; but there was still much to be done, and 
she was so tired, it seemed impossible for her to 
work on through the day. Yet when Robert re- 
turned, bringing a generous supply of bread for 
both supper and breakfast, she tried to look on the 
bright side. 

I never got half so much before, and it is all 
good too,” he said pleasantly ; adding : If you 
were like Mrs. Landaff, you would put all the small 
pieces by themselves, and make the rest look so nice, 
there wouldn’t anybody mind its being broken.” 

‘‘ Do you know how to do it ? ” 

I guess I could. If I should wash my hands 
real clean, should you be willing I should try ? ” 

I should be glad to have you.” 

‘‘ Then here goes, and after it is all spread on the 
plates, you coax mother out here. I should think 
she would do almost anything you want her to. I 
would. I tell you, Mary, it has been pretty awful 
since we moved here. This is the worst place we 
ever lived in. We always had one room besides 


240 The Working-Mans Loaf, 

the kitchen and bedrooms. The bedrooms were a 
good deal larger too. It is awful dark and poky 
here when it storms.’' 

It would be lighter, if we should give the win- 
dows a good scrubbing.” 

So it would, and I am ready to help you do it. 
Mother used to keep things cleaner. I did the best 
I could with the floor yesterday, but it don’t look 
very well. The boys wouldn’t let it dry without 
being tracked.” 

Where are the boys now?” 

^‘Somewhere around. They will keep pretty well 
out of the way until they get hungry.” 

“ But they ought not to be in the street. Don’t 
they go to school ? ” 

“ They did, before we came here. Since then, they 
have been too ragged to go anywhere decent.” 

‘‘About Sunday, Robert. What do you all do 
then ? ” 

“ The same as other days. What did you do at 
Uncle Daniel’s ? ” 

“We went to church and Sunday-school. Then 
we read our Bibles and our library books, and when 
it was so dark we couldn’t see without a lamp, we 
sung and talked together. Aunt Rachel said we 
ought to make a Sabbath day’s journey towards 
Heaven.” 

“If that is the way you lived there, you can’t 
ever live with us. Father don’t mind anything 
about Sunday. He isn’t a bit like Aunt Rachel.” 

“ I am afraid he isn’t ; but they were brought 
up together, and she told me I must try to lead 


The Working-Man s Loaf. 241 

him back into the right path. Do you think I 
could ? 

Perhaps so, if you could get him to stop drink- 
ing beer/’ 

Does mother drink beer ? ” asked Mary half un- 
der her breath. 

She does when she can get it, but father don’t 
let her have much lately,” was replied. 

“ Do you drink it ? ” 

No, I don’t. I used to, but I stopped that and 
tobacco more than a year ago. Will drinks it when 
he can get it, and he smokes too.” 

‘‘What of Clem and Luke ? ” 

“Well, Clem isn’t so bad, but if Luke goes on as 
he has begun, he will be the worst of the lot. We 
are a bad set, anyway, and it must be dreadful for 
you to come to live with us.” 

“ I was sorry to come, but Aunt Rachel said it 
was my duty, and if I can make things better, I 
sha’n’t mind the hard work. If you will stand by 
me, we can do a good deal.” 

“ I will. You can count on me every time,” said 
the boy heartily. “ It was a letter you wrote to me 
that made me give up beer and tobacco.” 

“ But, Robert, it takes money to buy beer and to- 
bacco. How did you get the money ? ” 

“Worked for it. Sometimes I did jobs ’round the 
saloons, and almost anything else. Men and boys 
will do more to get tobacco and liquor than they 
will to get something to eat when they are hungry. 
Didn’t you know that ? ” 

“I don’t know much about tobacco and liquor, 


242 The Working-Man s Loaf, 

except what I have read ; only I remember that 
father used to smoke. Uncle Daniel won’t have to- 
bacco on his premises. The boys have all promised 
never to use, it; and as for beer, or liquor of any 
kind, I don’t believe they know how it tastes.” 

I wish I didn’t, and I wish my brothers didn’t.” 

Does father like to have them drink beer and 
smoke ? ” 

You wouldn’t think he did, by the way he scolds 
them when he sees them at it ; but he doesn’t seem 
to care much, if they only keep out of his sight.” 

While thus talking, the bread had been nicely as- 
sorted the best slices being saved for mother, and 
laid on the only really pretty plate in the house. 

‘‘Now, if I had some of Aunt Rachel’s currant 
jelly, I believe I could tempt mother to come to the 
table,” said Mary. 

At that moment Will looked into the kitchen, 
when his brother asked him if he had any money. 

“Yes ; earned it since dinner,” was replied. 

“ Lend it to me, to get some jelly for mother,” 
said Robert ; “ I will pay you to-morrow.” 

“ But I want it now. I am awful dry, and I haven’t 
had a smoke to-day.” 

A boy twelve years old, he seemed to consider 
that these two facts entitled him to sympathy ; and 
without staying to hear more, closed the door be- 
hind him. 

“ Such depravity ! ” exclaimed his sister. “ What 
will become of him ! What is father thinking about, 
to let him go on so ! ” 

“ A man who does as father does can’t say much 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 243 

to his boys for following his example/' answered 
Robert, with an air of indifference. 

^^No, I don't suppose he can; but I wish I was 
back at Uncle Daniel's, and didn’t know anything 
about it," sobbed Mary, adding presently : Why, 
you aren't even respectable. I have read about peo- 
ple living so, but I never expected to live so myself." 

‘‘Don’t cry; don't," urged the boy, coming close 
to his sister, and resting his hand upon her shoulder. 
“ I know it is dreadful for you. I have wanted to 
run away and get out of it ; but when I knew you 
was coming, I thought perhaps there would be a 
chance for me here at home. There is an evening 
school, not very far off, where they teach just what I 
want to learn. If I could be clean and decent, to 
go there evenings, I shouldn't mind working days." 

“You ca?i be and you shall be," responded Mary, 
throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. 
“ If it depends upon me, you shall have a chance to 
be somebody. Aunt Rachel says where two are 
agreed about anything, they can do wonders, with 
the Lord's blessing; and, Robert, we will ask the 
Lord to bless us, won’t we ? " 

“ I am afraid I don't know about that, but I will 
do the best I can, and you must do the rest," an- 
swered Robert to this proposition, and so their com- 
pact was sealed. 

Then their thoughts turned to their mother, who, 
after much persuasion, was induced to come into the 
kitchen; not, however, until she had complained of 
weakness, and asked Robert if there was any ale or 
beer in the house. He was glad to be able to tell 


244 The Workmg-Man s Loaf, 

her there was none ; and as she had no money 
she did not presume to say more about it. He en- 
deavored to interest her in some plans for the im- 
provement of their home ; but she professed herself 
utterly indifferent. She drank the tea prepared for 
her, and ate two slices of toast, saying, at last, that 
she wished the soup had been ready for dinner. 

‘‘Your father will like it. He always liked soup, 
and I am glad Mary could get so much with so little 
money. Mrs. Landaff is a good friend to have, 
'though she gives her advice sometimes when she 
isn't asked. Her son has the letting of some of the 
houses 'round here, and that is why they moved into 
this street." 

“ Ernest Landaff isn't much like the other men on 
the street," replied Robert. “I wish I knew as 
much as he does." 

“ I wish you could have a chance in the world, but 
your father says you must go to work, and I sup- 
pose you must," said his mother. 

“All the same, I am going to have a chance, 
mother. Mary is going to help me ; and if we all 
try together, we can make things better here at 
home; I know we can." 

Meanwhile, Mary had ^commenced a thorough 
work in her mother's room, which she continued, 
notwithstanding objections and protestations; effect- 
ing such an improvement as to call forth some 
words of commendation. 

“Your Aunt Rachel was always particular, and so 
was your grandmother," said Mrs. Winter. “Your 
father used to talk a good deal about it, but he 
don't care how things look now." 


CHAPTER III. 


LIKE HER GRANDMOTHER. 

When Mr. Winter came from his work that evad- 
ing, he looked around for a minute, and then went 
into the shed, where on a rough bench he found a 
basin of water and some soap; while hanging above 
it were a clean towel, a bit of looking-glass, and a 
comb. With these conveniences before him, he 
could not neglect to use them; and this done, he 
wished he was better dressed. 

Supper was on the table, which was covered with 
a white cloth; and what was more surprising still, 
the boys presented an array of clean faces. The 
soup was good, and the coffee, although not strong, 
was palatable. Mary thought she had never been 
so tired before in all her life, but her father more 
than repaid her for what she had done, when he 
said : 

You make me think of your grandmother. She 
knew^ how to do everything in the best way. You 
have done so well with your marketing, I will give 
you fifty cents for to-morrow; and I may as wxll 
give it to you now, before I have a chance to spend 
it.’’ 

Thank you,” she replied, as she took the money; 
thinking of what she would buy for her mother. 

Her father lingered a little after eating his sup- 

(345) 


246 The Working-Mans Loaf, 

per, yet she was not disappointed when he left the 
house, knowing, as she did, that he would probably 
spend the remainder of the evening in a beer-saloon. 
Robert kept his brothers with him, and induced 
them to go early to bed. Mrs. Winter desired to be 
left to herself, and Mary was glad when the last 
work for the day was done, and she could go to the 
closet-like room where she was to sleep. As soon 
as he heard her step, Robert came in, apologizing 
for his intrusion by saying : 

I wanted to tell you how much good you have 
done me. I begin to feel as though I might, some- 
time, know more and be better than I am now. Are 
you going to read in the Bible ?'* he asked, as she 
took the precious book in her hand. 

‘‘Yes, I am,’* she replied. “I read in it ever}’’ 
day.” 

‘‘Then let me hear you.” 

After reading a chapter, Mary waited for a min- 
ute, and then falling upon her knees, prayed earnest- 
ly for a blessing upon each member of the family; 
calling each by name. Rising, she turned with a 
questioning glance to her brother, who said : 

“ I will do my part of the work, and I know I 
shall be better. I can’t help it, now you are here.” 

The next morning was not so bad as the preced- 
ing. The children were all in their places at the 
table; and after breakfast, without really knowing 
how it was accomplished, they were all busy in help- 
ing to carry out their sister’s plans. The little yard 
in front of the house was cleared of rubbish. The 
shed was swept ; the outside of the windows was 


The Working-Man s Loaf, 247 

washed ; and plenty of water was brought for wash- 
ing clothes. 

Will, who was an inveterate whittler, had been 
furnished with a pattern for a bracket, which he 
proposed to cut from an old cigar-box. When told 
of what his cousins had accomplished in that way, 
he said resolutely : 

I can do as well as they can. I don’t allow any 
boy to go ahead of me, when I get started.” 

“ Then I hope you will start in the right way, 
and ” 

^^And what?” he asked, looking to Mary, who 
had left her sentence unfinished. 

^^Stick to teetotal temperance.” 

So that’s it, is it,” he responded with a knowing 
wink. “ Is that what they are doing at Uncle Dan- 
iel’s?” 

‘‘Yes, every one of them,” was replied. 

“ I don’t know about that for us. You see, we 
live in the city, and that makes a difference.” 

Here the subject was dropped. Mary was ready 
to go out, and she thought Will could be safely left 
to his own reflections. Presuming upon the kind- 
ness of Mrs. Landaff, she called to ask further 
advice. 

“You have started well,” said this neighbor, when 
told what had been accomplished. “Now if you 
have patience to continue in well doing, you will be 
sure of a reward.” 

“ I shall do as well as I can,” answered the young 
girl, who was fast learning some of the hard lessons 
of life. 


248 The Workijig-Man s Loaf, 

With Mrs. Landah's assistance, the half-dollar 
was judiciously expended. On their way home, 
they were met by Robert, who took his sister’s par- 
cels, asking her to hurry. 

Mother came out and wanted Will to get her 
some beer,” he whispered confidentially. There is 
an old woman that lives in an alley back of us who 
keeps beer to sell, and takes almost anything for 

pay. I told Will not to stir a step, but There 

he is, this minute.” 

Robert left the parcels, and with a bound rushed 
after his brother, whom he presently led into the 
kitchen. When Mrs. Winter saw them, she asked 
no questions, but with a look upon her face ex- 
pressing both mortification and disappointment, she 
went to her room. 

“ There, now, don’t you ever bring a drop of beer 
into this house for anybody,” said Robert, as he re- 
leased the culprit. 

Mother told me to get it, and Luke heard her,” 
was replied sulkily. It isn’t any worse for her to 
drink beer, than it is for father. Beer is good. ^ It 
makes folks strong, and I like it.” 

Here followed an animated discussion of its 
merits, and of the value of money. In this dis- 
cussion all took part, and several questions were 
settled by vote, which Mary took care should seem 
of some importance. Later in the day, she went to 
her mother’s room and asked abruptly : 

‘‘What is to be done about the boys’ clothes? 
They are ragged and dirty. If you would help 
about it, we could make them more decent, bul^l 


249 


The Working-Mail s Loaf. 

can never do it alone. I am sure you would be bet- 
ter if you would go out of doors a little. We should 
all be so much happier, too, to have you with us. 

It must be lonely for father when he comes home, 
and you not ready to meet him.*' 

Your father don’t care, if he can only get all the 
beer and tobacco he wants,” replied the woman in a 
querulous tone. “ He drinks and smokes so much, 
there isn’t anything left for the rest of us. A glass 
of beer does me good when I am so weak and faint, ^ 
but he wants it all himself.” 

I don’t believe beer does anybody good,” re- 
plied Mary. Anyway, I should think things were 
about as bad as they can be here. Robert and I are 
going to do the best we can. We don’t mean to be 
(dragged down by beer or any other kind of liquor. 
If Robert can’t go to a day-school, he is going in 
the evening, and I am going to help him all I can 
to be a good scholar.” 

That sounds like your father. He used to think 
he could do anything he undertooK.” 

I don’t believe but what he can, mother. He 
can give up drinking beer, and save money to buy 
a pretty home, if we all help him.” 

''Why, child, what has come over you!” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Winter, raising her head from the pil- 
low, and looking earnestly in her daughter’s face. 

" Nothing new, mother. Aunt Rachel brought 
me up to be sure of some things. She makes up 
her mind what is best to do, and then she does it. 

"You can’t expect me to be like your Aunt 
Rachel,” said Mrs. Winter. 


250 The Working-Mans Loaf. 

‘‘ I wish you were/' said Mary involuntarily, and 
then blamed herself for having spoken without tak- 
ing time to choose her words. 

“ I didn't think you would turn against me so 
soon," sobbed the unhappy mother. “Your father 
finds fault with me, and that is all I can bear. I 
know it is hard for you, child," she added in a dif- 
ferent tone. 

“ It is hard," was replied gently. “ I am used to 
work, but I have always had some time for rest, 
every day, even when Aunt Rachel was sickest. I 
am willing to do all I can, but it is too much for me 
to do all the work needed in this family. I can not 
live in a dirty house, and see the boys covered with 
rags, instead of wearing decent clothes." 

“ What will you do ? " 

“ If I can not have things more respectable, I 
shall write to Aunt Rachel about it, and ask her 
what my duty is." 

“Your father would feel dreadfully to have her 
know how he lives." 

“Then he must live differently. We must all go 
to work together and have a comfortable home." 

“ Mother Winter over again, and I never could 
suit her," sighed her daughter-in-law, when Mary 
had returned to the kitchen. 


CHAPTER IV. 


DISCOURAGED. 

^Ht is no more than I expected/’ said Mrs. Landaff, 
in response to Robert Winter’s announcement that 
his sister was too sick to go down-stairs. A girl 
like her can hardly go through such a fortnight’s 
work as she has had, without suffering for it. I 
know you have helped her all you could, but the 
hardest of it has come upon her.” 

“ I know it, Mrs. Landaff, and I don’t know what 
we shall do now. I got breakfast, myself, this 
morning, and we boys washed the dishes and made 
things look as well as we could. But there is the 
dinner to get.” 

What did your father say ? ” 

Said he was sorry about Mary, and I must take 
good care of her. There is another thing that 
troubles me, Mrs. Landaff. Now the new beer- 
saloon is opened at the head of the street, I am 
afraid it will be worse for father, and I am afraid 
the boys will go there, in spite of all I can do. 
Then we shall be worse off than ever before. It 
seems as though the beer men have their saloons in 
the very worst places for everybody. I wish all the 
beer in the world was poured into the ocean, and 
there couldn’t be any more made.” 

‘‘ I wish so too, Robert ; but our wishing will not 

(251) 


252 The Working-Mans Loaf, 

make it so. We can only try to prevent people 
drinking it. The first thing to do now is to look 
after Mary.” 

“ She wanted me to ask you to please come over 
and see her. She said it would make her feel bet- 
ter. Mother don’t do anything for her.” 

Mrs. Landaff needed no urging. Accompanying 
Robert, she went to his sister’s room, which she 
found as clean as it could be made with only soap 
and water ; although, at best, it was a dreary place, 
with its dingy walls, bare floor, and hard, narrow 
bed. 

^‘You are so kind,” murmured the tired girl. ‘‘I 
didn’t know what to do but send for you.” 

Poor child ; I am glad you did. You have over- 
worked, and need rest. You must lie here until you 
feel better.” 

But how can I, when I am needed in the kitchen 
every minute ! I could not stand long enough to 
dress myself this morning. Oh, dear ! I wish I 
was back at Uncle Daniel’s. Sometimes I almost 
wish I never had gone there. Then I shouldn’t 
know the difference between there and here.” 

^‘The difference is what you need to know, so 
that you can teach the rest. Think of Robert. You 
have done a work for him, already, that will pay for 
a good many hours of headache.” 

I couldn’t stay here if it was not for him.” 

“ He says you cooked enough, yesterday, to last 
two or three days.” 

“ I did, except meat. It seemed so good to have 
enough to use, that I kept right on cooking. I 


253 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 

planned to do some sewing to-day, but I must give 
that up. I always have a sick day when I get too 
tired; but Aunt Rachel was so careful about it, I 
didn't have a great many. I am afraid mother will 
go back to her old discouraged ways, and there is 
something else too. Do you know about it ? " 

‘‘Yes, dear, I know all about it, and it don't do 
any good for you to worry. You can trust Robert 
not to let anything wrong happen until you can go 
down. I always liked Robert, and Ernest says there 
is more good in him than you would think at first 
sight. He doesn't have anything to do with the boys 
around here." 

“It seems to me a dreadful place to live." 

“ There are many worse. But you are talking too 
much for the good of your head. Should you 
mind if I should send you a little table for your 
room ? I have one I am not using, and I should be 
glad to lend it to you." 

“ I should be very thankful for it. I had a prettier 
room at Uncle Daniel's." 

“ Then I will have Robert bring it over. It will 
just fit this corner." 

Mrs. Landaff said good-bye and was gone, but 
her visit had done much to comfort heryoung neigh- 
bor. Presently Will asked to come in, bringing tea 
and toast. Then appeared Robert with the little 
table and its scarlet cover, which so brightened up 
the room that it seemed far less dreary to its occu- 
pant. Clem brought her tvro geranium leaves he 
had found in the street, and her mother sent her a 
pleasant message. 


254 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 

After all, there were some compensations for her 
illness, and thinking of these, she fell asleep. It 
was past noon when she awoke, and although she 
was still weak, her headache was quite gone, and 
she could think clearly. Just before supper, Robert 
opened her door softly, impatient to tell her of the 
opening of the new saloon. 

‘‘They give free lunches all this afternoon and 
evening,’’ he said in an excited tone. “ Codfish and 
crackers, to make everybody dry, and then there will 
be a big sale of beer. That is the way they do. I have 
kept watch of the boys, so they haven’t been there, 
but father will be sure to go.” 

“ Will he go before he comes home ? ” 

“ I don’t believe he will ; but then you can’t ever 
tell what such a man will do. O Mary, you don’t 
know ; but it is the beer, and tobacco, and liquor, 
that keeps fol^s so awfully poor. They live all 
around in these houses. Ernest Landaff says he is 
going to see what he can do about it.” 

“ Are he and his mother very poor ? ” 

“ Not very, ’though they used to be richer. They 
lost lots of money that was in a bank and some other 
place ; and that is the reason Ernest has to work 
to take care of his mother. He expects to be better 
off sometime, and I hope he will. He is just splen- 
did. He has asked me, two or three times, to go to 
Sunday-school, but I didn’t say anything to you 
about it, because I haven’t decent clothes to wear, 
and I can’t get them either. When I go to work I 
will have them ; but, Mary, there are two places 
where I won’t work, no matter what father says. I 


The Working-Man s Loaf, 255 

won’t work in a cigar factory, or in a liquor-saloon 
of any kind.” 

“ What if father tells you to ? ” 

will run away to Uncle Daniel’s, and get him 
to find me a place with some farmer. You see I have 
thought it all over. I have made up my mind and I 
will stick to it. There are lots of hard places where 
boys work, but I don’t mind the hard.” 

Never mind about that now, Robert. There will 
be a way out of our trouble if we only do as well as 
we can. This morning, I was so discouraged, I 
thought it would be easier to die than try to go any 
further, but I feel differently now. I didn’t know 
there was so much wickedness in the world till I 
came here, and it seems to me that most of it comes 
from what Uncle Daniel calls the cursed liquor.” 

^‘It does. Why, it is just awful. Men who begin 
with beer don’t very often stop with it. They take 
to whisky after a while. I think father drinks whis- 
ky sometimes.” 

“ Oh ! don’t say that, or I shall be discouraged 
again. I want to look on the bright side if there is 
any.” 

‘‘You must make it before you can look on it.” 


CHAPTER V. 


THE BURSTING OF THE STORM. 

Robert knew from appearances that a storm 
was brewing,*' yet wisely forbore to trouble his sister 
with anticipations of evil. Since her illness her 
father had treated her with more consideration, giv- 
ing her money for various purposes without com- 
plaint or dictation. All this was changed, however, ^ 
when one morning she asked for her usual allow- 
ance. 

Make the most of it, for I don't know when you 
will get any more," he said surlily. The company 
talk of cutting down our wages, and if they do I 
shall strike. It is all I can do to live now. A cut- 
down would starve us out, and I shall strike." 

Strike ! " repeated Mary. 

^^Yes ; quit work until the company comes to 
terms," answered her father. 

“And so earn nothing?" 

“Yes; I am not a slave to work for starvation 
wages. If they won't give me fair wages, I won't 
work." 

“ How much will they cut you down ?" 

“ Ten per cent, is what they are talking of, and 
that will make forty cents a day difference with 
me." 

“ Forty cents ! " exclaimed the daughter in a tone 
(256) 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 257 

expressing the utmost astonishment. Do you earn 
four dollars a day ? 

“ Yes, about that,’’ was replied with some hesita- 
tion. 

‘‘ That is more than a thousand dollars a year. 
Aunt Rachel would say we ought to live on half of 
that, and live well too.” 

‘^She don’t know anything of what it costs to 
live here in the city, where we have to buy every- 
thing we eat, and pay rent besides. The} own their 
house and farm.” 

‘^But I have heard Uncle Daniel say he earned the . 
money to pay for them, and he never had more than 
twenty-five dollars a month besides his board. There 
was a small mortgage on the farm when he was niar- 
ried, and he and Aunt Rachel worked hard to pay 
it. They would think themselves rich if they had 
five hundred dollars a year to live on.” 

So should we, but we don’t have it now,” said 
Robert. Men earn enough ; that isn’t the trouble; 
it is the way they spend their money. Most of it 
goes for beer, and whisky, and tobacco ; and the 
women and children have to live on the leavings.” 

At this, Mr. Winter’s face was fairly livid with 
rage, yet he did not deny his son’s statement. He 
only replied : 

When you act for yourself, we will see what you 
do with your money.” 

Yes, sir ; but I can tell you now, that I shall have 
decent clothes and a decent house to live in. What 
I earn won’t go for beer or tobacco.” 

‘‘You can do as you please, and so shall I,” was 


258 The Working-Mafis Loaf. 


responded, as if thus the whole matter was set- 
tled. 

“ But, father, here we are, and we can not any of 
us do as we please. We are obliged to do as we can, 
and you are the one to decide what we ca7i do. I 
don’t want to speak disrespectful to you, but I think 
it is dreadful to live as we do. Now I know how 
much you earn, I know there is no need of it. We 
could live decently on half what you earn, and we 
don’t live decently now, do we, father?” 

Mary waited for a reply to her question, and re- 
ceiving none, asked another : 

“ Father, wouldn’t you like to live in a pleasant 
house, with nice, clean rooms, and have a garden, 
with trees and flowers ? ” 

^‘Of course I should like it, if I could afford it. 
Who wouldn’t ? But I don’t intend to be catechized 
by my children, or told what I ought to do. I can 
manage my own affairs without any of their help.” 

Mary heartily wdshed this was true, although she 
did not say so. Had she been like many young girls, 
she would have given up in despair, and made no 
further effort to stem the tide. But perseverance 
was one of her marked characteristics, and there 
was too much at stake to be easily relinquished. So 
she struggled on until help appeared in the person 
of Aunt Rachel, who came unheralded. 

Brother Robert ! ” exclaimed the fine-looking 
woman, who met Mr. Winter as he came into the 
kitchen, where she had already made herself quite 
at home. 

‘‘You here, Rachel ! ” he responded, while his man- 


The Working-Man! s Loaf, 259 

ner betrayed the utmost surprise, not unmingled 
with regret. 

Yes, I am here. I wished to see how Mary wou^d 
manage as a housekeeper, and besides, Robert, I 
wished to see you, my only brother. Mary had been 
with us so long, she seemed like one of our own. 
The boys miss her, too, as much as my husband and 
I do, and they told me to be sure and take her back 
with me ; but we won't talk of that now." 

‘‘I don't think we will. We never can spare her 
again very long at a time. She makes me think of 
mother every day." 

She is a good deal like her grandmother. I could 
always see that. If she undertakes to do anything, 
she is likely to go through with it. You and I have 
changed since we saw each other before. It has been 
longer than it ought to t>e."^ 

don't see as you have changed much, Rachel. 
Your cheeks are a little fuller, and you have some 
gray hairs, but you are nearly the same as five years 
ago. I have changed." 

Yes, you have. You have grown stouter, and you 
have more color in your face. I hope your health is 
good." 

Pretty good generally." 

Rachel Stearns talked on, seeking thus to cover 
her own feelings, as well as the evident chagrin of 
her brother. He had not told her that he was glad 
to see her, and indeed, she could not help knowing 
that he regretted her coming. Mrs. Winter, too, was 
troubled at the unexpected visit, but the boys were 
delighted. 


26 o 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 

Where will Aunt Rachel sleep ? asked Robert, 
anxious for her comfort. 

. She must sleep with me ; there is no other 
place,*’ replied Mary. 

But such a small room, and such a hard bed. 
Father is ashamed ; I know he is, and I am glad of it. 
Mother is ashamed too. Perhaps it will make her 
start up to do better. Anyway, Aunt Rachel has 
come at the right time. Ernest Landalf says the 
men in the shop where father works are going to 
strike to-morrow or the day after, and, I don’t know 
certain, but I think father has engaged a place for 
me in a cigar factory. I mean to tell Aunt Rachel 
all about it.” 

Mr. Winter did not go out after supper except for 
a short smoke. He devoted the evening to his sis- 
ter, with whom he talked of old times and old 
friends, their conversation at length drifting back to 
their own families and fortunes. 

The farm has given us a good living, with plenty 
of hard work,” remarked Mrs. Stearns. “We don’t 
expect to make money as you do, but we manage to 
lay by a little every year, and now the boys are get- 
ting older, their father makes some ventures he 
would hardly think of making alone. Our boys are 
all scholars. How is it with yours ? ” 

“ I don’t know so much about that, perhaps, as I 
ought to,” replied Mr. Winter. “ The truth is, I have 
left the children mostly for their mother, to manage. 
I go to my work pretty early, and when I get through 
at night, I am too tired to do much more than get 
ready for bed. I should be glad to give my boys a 


26 i 


The Working-Man s Loaf, 

chance to go to school, but what with sickness and 
hard times, I haven’t managed to do any more than 
make the year come ’round ; so I don’t see any way 
but they must go to work.” 

Our boys have always worked, but they have 
never missed school when there was one, any more 
than Mary has. We had planned to send her and 
Nelson to an academy, next year. It would require 
economy to do it ; but we are used to economy, and 
they would learn enough to pay all the cost. I 
wonder if you know how good a scholar Mary is.” 

“ I am afraid not. She has been so busy about the 
house since she came home, that we haven’t thought 
of much else. When her mother gets stronger I 
hope she will have an easier time.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 

Mr. Winter had received a new revelation. He 
had thought of his daughter only as a worker, 
bound to give him her best service. True, he had 
known that it could not be a pleasant change for 
her to leave the old farm-house, in which she had 
spent five years, and come to such a home as he 
would give her, but he had by no means appreciated 
the sacrifice she thus made. It was because of her 
delicate health that she had been intrusted to Aunt 
Rachel’s care, and now that she was well and strong, 
her place seemed to her father to be with him, al- 
though he had little to offer in return for the ser- 
vices he claimed. 

Thinking of all this, he passed a sleepless night, 
and arose the next morning in no enviable frame of 
mind ; when, to add to his discomfort, his sister was 
the first to meet him. 

“ Do you go to your work before breakfast ? ” she 
asked, as he turned to greet her. 

‘^No, but I was going out to do an errand,” he 
answered. rather think some meat is needed for 
breakfast.” 

“ Then I will go with you,” was responded heart- 
ily. “ I am always an early riser, and I should like 
to see how people look about here when they first 
get up.” 


(262) 


The Workmg-Mans Loaf, 263 

Mr. Winter knew his sister too well to attempt to 
leave her behind ; so he made a virtue of necessity, 
and went to the nearest market instead of the 
saloon. For once, he was obliged to dispense with 
his mug of beer, as an appetizer for breakfast; 
which, however, was so much better than usual, that 
he did it ample justice. 

He went out directly, but after walking a short 
distance, he turned back and called to Robert, who 
went to him at once, when he said : 

I engaged a place for you in Hunter’s cigar fac- 
tory, on Cross Street, yesterday, and I told him you 
would be there in good season to-day. So you can 
go right along now, without going to the house 
again.” 

No, sir ; I shall not work in a cigar factory,” 
answered the boy. I promised, and wrote it out 
in black and white, more than a year ago, that I 
never would have anything to do with tobacco again 
as long as I live. I am bound to keep my promise, 
and I couldn’t if I went into the cigar factory to 
work. Besides, I hate the very thought of it. I will 
do anything else, except to work in a drinking- 
saloon. I don’t care how hard or how dirty it is.” 

‘‘You will work where I put you,” responded Mr. 
Winter, so angry that it was with difficulty he could 
speak. 

“ Yes, sir ; except in a cigar factory or drinking- 
saloon,” was the fearless reply. 

“ Has Mary been putting you up to this ? ” 

“ No, sir ; I put myself up to it. I have thought 
of it a good while and made up my mind.” Then 


264 The Workhig-Mans Loaf. 

the boy’s voice changed to one of entreaty, rather 
than defiance, as he said : “ Father, I want to be 
somebody, and have a chance in the world, the same 
as my cousins. I don’t expect to be helped as they 
are, but I want to be left so I can do for myself. I 
don’t want to grow up like the men in this neigh- 
borhood. I should rather die.” 

This appeal touched the father’s heart ; yet too 
proud to acknowledge it, he gruffly bade Robert to 
leave him and say no more. 

Mrs. Stearns had not expected to find her brother’s 
family living as they should, yet she was wholly un- 
prepared for what she saw. Mary had done all that 
a young girl could do under such unfavorable cir- 
cumstances; but there was needed a thorough and 
radical change, quite beyond the power of any one 
person to effect. She was considering how far she 
might venture in the way of remonstrance and ad- 
vice, when her nephew rushed in, exclaiming : 

“ There, Mary, I have done it. Father told me to go 
to work in a cigar factory, and I told him I wouldn’t. 
I said I would go anywhere else, except into a drink- 
ing-saloon; but I never will work there or in a cigar 
factory.” 

“ Cigar factory ! ” repeated Aunt Rachel, taking 
the boy by the shoulders, and turning him around 
so that she could look him squarely in the face. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “It is a place full 
of tobacco. You have to handle it and breathe it, 
and almost eat it : and I can’t.” 

The strain had been so great, that here Robert 
broke down ; bursting into tears and sobbing bit- 


The Working-Mans Loaf, 265 

terly. When he could control himself, his first 
words were : 

Aunt Rachel, I suppose you think I am an awful 
wicked boy, to tell my father I won’t do anything ; 
but if you knew how hard I have tried to do better 
than I used to, I don’t believe you would blame 
me. 

I don’t blame you,” was replied. If it is nec- 
essary for you to earn money to help support the 
family, there must be some better place for you to 
work than in a cigar factory. What wages would 
you get there ? ” 

I don’t know. I want to learn father’s trade, 
but I want to learn more than he has. If I could 
work as well as he can, and draft for myself, you 
see r should have a good deal better chance than 
he has had. I want to learn more about arithmetic, 
too, and I want to learn to keep books, besides lots 
of other things.” 

You ought to go to school. That is what all of 
you boys ought to do.” 

Yes, ma’am ; but we haven’t had decent clothes. 
Mary has washed and mended for us, and father 
bought me and Will new suits, day before yesterday. 
That is why we look so much better than Clem and 
Luke. It is a shame ; and I wish there never could 
be any more beer and tobacco in the whole world. 
That is what father spends his money for, instead 
of for what he ought to. There, I didn’t mean to 
say it, but I can’t take it back, and every word of it 
is true.” 

I am glad you are on the right side of the ques- 


266 


The Working-Man s Loaf, 

tion/’ said Mrs. Stearns, thus breaking the awkward 
silence after Robert's outburst. 

I am, and so is Mary ; and we are trying to 
bring the boys around." 

I hope you will succeed, and of course your 
mother will help you." 

I can't help much about anything," responded 
Mrs. Winter. I wish things were different, but I 
can't change them." 

‘‘ It is hard for you, sister, I know, but I can 
not think of any situation I could be in, where I 
shouldn't keep trying to right what was wrong, and 
make the most of all I had." 

I never was like you, Rachel." 

It is not necessary you should be. But I have 
come to stay with you two weeks, and in that time 
I want to help every one of you all I can. You 
would have better health if you lived in brighter, 
sunnier rooms, and went out of doors every day. I 
am not sure but the best thing you can do is to go 
home with me and spend the summer." 

I wish I could go," cried Robert. 

What could Mary do without you ? " 

She might go too." 

‘‘ Not to leave your father. I don't see yet how 
we are to bring things around, but there will be a 
way. There always is, when it is really best there 
should be." 

‘‘That is what Mrs. Landaff says. Aunt Rachel. 
Next to you, I guess she is the best woman in the 
world. She is the one who told Mary about market- 
ing, and sent her the little table. She comes in al- 


The Working-Man' s Loaf. 267 

most every day, too, to bring mother something 
nice to eat. Her son Ernest is splendid, and I want 
to be like him/’ 

Will and Clem and Luke did not talk much in 
the presence of their aunt, but they were interested 
listeners to all that she said ; and before she had 
been with them twenty-four hours, they were ready 
to indorse her opinions and decisions. 

Except what she says about beer and tobacco,” 
whispered Luke, who was not yet nine years old. 

I don’t believe a woman knows as well about 
them as boys and men do.” 

‘^You don’t, do you?” rejoined Robert, who had 
heard the remarks not intended for his ears. Aunt 
Rachel knows more than a thousand boys like you, 
and the best thing you can do is to do as she tells 
you.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


blunt’s saloon. 

Mary and Robert Winter intended to keep their 
brothers under strict supervision, but in some way 
Clem made his escape, and after a short absence, re- 
turned in a state of great excitement. Beckoning 
to Robert to come into the shed, he whispered : 

Father is getting drunk in Blunt’s saloon. There 
are ever so many men there, drinking whisky, and 
there’s another man there talking to them, with a big 
gold chain, and a big ring on one of his fingers. I 
heard him tell them it would take something stronger 
than beer to carry them through the strike. He 
ordered the whisky, and I saw him wink at. Blunt, 
when he said : ‘ Give them some of the best.’ 
You’ve got to do something about it, right off,” 
added Clem, wondering at his brother’s silence. 

I was thinking,” replied Robert. I don’t know 
what to do.” 

‘^Then ask Aunt Rachel. She knows everything.” 

‘‘Worse and worse,” sighed Mrs. Stearns, when 
the story was told to her. 

She, too, was forced to say that she did not know 
what to do. 

“ I believe it would kill me, to see my father 
drunk,” said Mary. “ If it comes to that, I shall 
give up entirely. It won’t do any good for me to 
(268) 



The Working-Man s Loaf. 269 

work, when there is a drunken man coming home at 
night, and I can’t do it.” 

“Robert, will you go to walk with me?” asked 
Aunt Rachel quickly. 

“Yes, ma’am, and be glad to,” he answered. 

“ Then we will go in the direction of Blunt’s sa- 
loon.” 

“Yes, ma’am”; and the boy’s heart beat quick 
and fast at the thought that his father would be 
found there. 

It was not far. They soon passed it; then re- 
passed it ; Mrs. Stearns looking resolutely at the 
door and window, but never once raising her eyes 
to the sign. 

“ I , saw your father in that store, and I think I 
will go in, too,” she said, as the door was opened, 
revealing a group of men, among whom was he of 
whom she was in search. Robert was about to re- 
monstrate, when she gave him a warning glance, 
and entered the saloon. 

“ Perhaps this is not a proper place for ladies, but 
as I was out walking, I thought I would join my 
brother,” she remarked to the proprietor, who ad- 
vanced to meet her. 

By this time the man who was haranguing the 
crowd became aware of her presence, and changing 
his tone, began a plea for the wives and children of 
working-men. 

“ They should be cared for; tenderly cared for,” 
he exclaimed. “ A man’s first duty is to his family, 
who should be dearer to him than his life. Every 
true man is ready to make any sacrifice for wife and 


270 The Working-Mans Loaf. 

children. It is for them he works, and of them he 
thinks through the long and often weary days.’* 

While this was said, Mr. Winter would take a step 
toward his sister and then stop, as if undecided 
what to do; repeating the movement, and yet but 
slightly changing his position. On the contrary, 
Mrs. Stearns stood motionless, with her eyes fixed 
upon the flashily dressed orator, as though uncon- 
scious of another’s presence. 

I am sure the lady who has honored us will 
agree with me,” he said at length, bowing low to her. 

I do agree with you in thinking that a man’s 
first duty is to his family,” she replied in a clear, 
distinct voice which could be heard by every one in 
the room. He should forego all selfish indul- 
gences, and find his happiness with his wife and 
children; w]?o should be as devoted to him as he is 
to them. He should spend his money for their com- 
fort, instead of tobacco and liquor, as so many do.” 
Here she paused, looking deliberately around, after 
which she spoke hurriedly: “ I think this must be a 
drinking-saloon, and it is no place for me.” 

Had a thunderbolt fallen at her brother’s feet, he 
would have been no more astonished. He knew not 
what to do. He had committed himself to a course 
of action his judgment condemned ; and despite 
the effect of the whisky he had drank, he knew the 
talk to which he had listened, and which he had ap- 
plauded, was the sheerest of nonsense. The speaker 
had his own ends to gain, and these accomplished, 
he cared no more for working-men than for the 
stones which paved the street. 


271 


The Working-Mans Loaf, 


\ 


Mr. Winter was the best workman in the shop 
where he was employed ; and until recently, the 
nicest jobs had been intrusted to him. But his 
habits were against him, and only that morning 
the foreman had remonstrated with him ; urging 
him to give up both beer and tobacco. At the time 
it was a grim satisfaction to think of the strike that 
was imminent, and which occurred without warn- 
ing, at a signal given by one who had no personal 
interest in any one concerned.' 

Now what was to be done. He could ask himself 
this question, but he could not answ’'er it; especially, 
since his sister had appeared upon the scene of 
action. 

“Give me some more whisky,’’ said the man 
standing beside him. “ It will take another glass to 
brace me up to meet my wife and sick girl. I prom- 
ised them a treat this evening, but here it goes 
down my throat.” 

The laugh which followed this poor attempt at 
wit grated harshly on Mr. Winter’s ears. He was 
not yet so far gone that he could make the claims 
of his family a subject of ridicule ; and disgusted 
with his surroundings, he turned his steps home- 
ward. 

“Well,” he said to his sister, who confronted him 
with a sad, stern face. 

“ It is anything but well,” she replied. “ Brother 
Robert, I would not have believed that I should 
live to be glad that our mother is dead; but I am 
glad now. Yes, Robert, I am thankful she did not 
live to see what I have seen to-day. It would have 


272 The Working-Mans Loaf. 

broken her heart, to know what I know; that you 
are almost, if not quite, a drunkard/' 

Don't talk so, Rachel, don't. I loved mother as 
well as you did." 

Then why do you disgrace her after she is dead? 
How could you go to such a place as where I saw 
you this morning ! The men, there, were strikers, 
were they not ? " 

‘‘Yes, they quit work, because their wages were 
cut down." 

“ And you " 

“Well, I quit with the rest." 

“Oh, Robert, how could you do it, with your 
family living in this unwholesome place, when you 
ought to give them a comfortable home ! If you 
earn nothing, how do you expect to live at all? 
Your Robert says you wanted him to go into a 
cigar factory to work. How much would he earn 
there ? " 

“ He would make pretty good wages, after he got 
well learned. He is quick and handy." 

“And you thought making cigars, that never 
ought to be made at all, was the best use you could 
put him to. Brother, it seems to me you must have 
lost your senses. It is dreadful for me to talk so to 
you, when we have been separated from each other 
so long; but what can I do ? What ought I to do ? 
Ought I to see you go down to perdition, and drag 
your family down, without speaking a word to re- 
strain you ? Brother, have you forgotten the les- 
sons your mother taught you from the Bible, and 
the prayers she offered for you ? " 


273 


The Working-Man s Loaf. 

Great drops of perspiration stood on the forehead 
of the man to whom these appeals were made, yet 
he remained silent. But his sister continued, until 
he cried at last : 

What would you have me do ? I am no worse 
than thousands of others. I have not committed 
the unpardonable sin, that I should be considered 
an outcast.’' 

God grant that you have not. I can not believe 
that you have, and for that reason I can pray for 
you. But tell me about your work and wages, so 
that I can understand better how you are situated.” 

Mr. Winter did this, making his usual complaint 
that it was all he could do to bring the months 
around without running into debt. 

If you will give me one-half of what your wages 
would be, even after ten per cent, reduction, I will 
engage to provide comfortably for your family,” 
responded Mrs. Stearns. ‘‘ I will hire a better tene- 
ment, and in six months I will have it better fur- 
nished. Your children shall be well clothed, and 
the boys shall be kept in school. Give your family 
half the loaf, Robert, and see how they will thrive 
on it. You ought to be able, to meet your own per- 
sonal expenses with what will provide for six, and 
give you a good home with them.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


ON A STRIKE. 

Mrs. Stearns decided to say no more to her 
brother in regard to his habits until further devel- 
opments. As a last resort, she appealed to his wife, 
whom she urged by every possible consideration to 
come to the rescue. 

If I thought it would be of any use, I would 
try,*’ replied Mrs. Winter. I don’t know but the 
fault is partly mine. I never was much of a house- 
keeper. After the first month or two, I never could 
quite suit my husband ; and a woman don’t like to 
be told she can’t do as well as others, even if she 
knows it. I am glad you had Mary with you so 
long. She is a great deal more capable than she 
would have been if she had stayed with me.” 

“ I think she does as well as you could expect 
such a girl to do, but it is natural for her to want 
you to take the lead in managing the house.” 

I know it, Rachel. I can look back and see a 
good many times when I might have done better 
than I did. You don’t know, but after Luke was 
born, I was so tired, all the time, that a neighbor 
told me to drink beer, and I got so used to it, that 
when I don’t have it, I miss it. I don’t feel as 
though I could get along without it, but my hus- 
band says I never shall have any more.” 

(274) 


The Workmg-Man s Loaf, 


275 


I don’t believe you really want any more, sister, 
when you think what miserable stuff it is. You can 
have something better.” 

should like something better. I don’t want to 
make my family unhappy.” 

‘‘I know you don’t. You want to make them as 
happy as you can. Now, I have planned some work 
for to-day, and you can help about it if you will. 
I found a suit of brother Robert’s clothes that can 
be made over for Clem or Luke, whichever needs 
them most. The best place for cutting them is in 
Mary’s room. The sun shines in there, so it is warm 
and pleasant, and you can lie down, if you get 
tired.” 

Mrs. Winter was finally persuaded to go to Mary’s 
room, where, after talking for an hour or two with 
her sister-in-law, who managed to inspire her with 
something like hopefulness, she lay down and fell 
asleep ; sleeping ^o soundly that she was not called 
to dinner. 

There was plenty of well-cooked food, which the 
younger members of the family ate with a keen 
relish, but their sister was too much depressed to 
care for food. Their father drank his coffee in 
silence ; then went out, and after looking up and 
down the street for a few minutes, came back to the 
house. 

Rachel, I have been thinking of what you said 
to me this morning,” he remarked, when left alone 
with his sister. ‘‘ You were pretty hard on me, 
though I don’t bear you any ill-will. I wish I was 
different. I wish everything was different. I made 


276 The Working-Man! s Loaf. 

a mistake in the beginning, but I don’t want you to 
think, because you saw me in a whisky-saloon this 
morning that I am a regular whisky-drinker. I only 
take a glass occasionally.” 

“ You drink beer every day, don't you ? ” 

“Yes, I do. I won't deny that, and I am so de- 
pendent on it, that it would be hard work to get 
along without it.'' 

“ Try and see. Eat three good, square meals every 
day, with plenty of strong coffee for drink, and at 
the end of six months you will wonder you ever 
spent your money for such a vile decoction as beer. 
But now that you have quit work, what are you 
going to do for money ? '' 

“ There is more than one shop in the city where 
I can work.'' 

“ Can you do better than where you have been ? ” 

“No, I don’t suppose I can.” 

“Then go back to the old place.” 

“ That would be too humiliating.” 

“It will come to that in the end, Robert. I have 
read of strikes, and the loss falls heaviest on the 
strikers. Would it be any more humiliating to go 
back, than to see your family suffering for the nec- 
essaries of life ? How much money have you to 
carry you over ? ” 

“ What I have earned this week, and there is help 
to come from the Union.” 

“ Don't fold your hands and accept charity, when 
you ought to be earning good wages. When is your 
rent due ? ” 

“ Next week.” 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 277 

“ That must be paid anyway.” 

“ Yes, landlords have a sharp lookout for theii 
tenants. I am paying more rent than I ought to, 
but this was the only place I could find when I 
moved here.” 

“Have you rented this place for any definite 
time?” 

“ No, I am a tenant at will, free to go when I 
please.” 

Mr. Winter did not intend to be so communicative 
in regard to his business, but during a half hour’s 
conversation with his sister, she made herself^ quite 
^jjQroughly acquainted with the true condition of 
affairs. 

Here was a first-class workman who had earned 
good wages for twenty years, without laying by a 
single dollar. He had a family to support and chil- 
dren to educate, but he had spent comparatively 
little for them. He married a young, pretty girl, 
who had found life with him entirely different from 
what she had expected. He had disappointed her, 
and her children had wearied her. 

She had little energy and less of thrift, but she 
could and did appreciate the efforts made in her be- 
half. Many hands had been busily at work through 
the morning in improving her room. A broken shut- 
ter had been thrown wide open, and a pile of old 
lumber which obstructed the sunlight, had been re- 
moved. A picture hung over the old chest of draw- 
ers, and a clean white curtain was looped back with 
a bit of bright ribbon. 

From the first, Mary had intended to take her aunt 


2/8 The Working-Man's Loaf. 

to call on Mrs. Landafi, but there was so much need- 
ing to be done at home, that after introducing them 
to each other, she left them to make their own 
acquaintance. The visitor felt at once that she had 
found a friend, and the two were soon discussing 
ways and means for effecting a change in Mr. Win- 
ter^s household. 

“ My son has the letting of some houses, and there 
is a good tenement to be vacated next Monday ” 
said Mrs. Landaff. “The rent is only a dollar a 
month more than your brother is paying, and there 
are two more rooms, with the sun shining into every 
one of them. If you could manage it, they would 
all feel better in a new place. There will be white- 
washing all through, and the front room to be paint- 
ed and papered, but the paper and paint can be put 
on after they move. We might go and look at the 
tenement.*’ 

This they did, and it was in every way so much 
more desirable than the one now occupied by her 
brother’s family, that Mrs. Stearns determined the 
change should be made. Naturally, the strike was 
considered, when Mrs. Landaff remarked : 

There is a waste of time and money, as long as 
a man is idle, and besides, idle men are hard to in- 
fluence for good. It will cost your brother some- 
thing to go back to his work now, but it will be 
easier for him than three months from now.” 


CHAPTER IX 


HALF THE LOAF. 

The foreman of the shop in which Mr. Winter had 
been employed received a call from Mrs. Landaff, 
who was a friend of his mother. 

I wish you had asked almost anything else of 
me,” he said, after listening to her request. We 
make it a point never to urge the return of a man 
who leaves us because of dissatisfaction with his 
wages. Of course, we should offer no extra induce- 
ments. It was only after long and serious debate, 
that the company decided to make the reduction of 
which the men complain, and having made it, they 
will abide by it. Winter was the best man we have 
ever had until he became such a confirmed beer- 
drinker. Since then he has not been so reliable.” 

‘‘ But wouldn't you be willing to give him another 
chance, if he would give up drinking beer?” 

Certainly ; we should be glad to have him come 
back to-morrow morning, but he better throw away 
his pipe with his beer-mug.” 

“Well, Harold, would you mind going to him 
yourself to-morrow morning, and tell him what you 
have just told me? You might be doing the best 
deed of all your life. It is the man's soul I am plead- 
ing for, and the souls of his family. Remember 
that, Harold ; and remember, too, that in the day 

(279) 


28 o The Working-Mans Loaf. 

of judgment, his soul may be required at your 
hands/’ 

‘‘ Mrs. Landaff, you have gained your point, as 
usual. I will see Winter in the morning, and after 
what you have said, you can trust me to do my best 
to influence him.” 

True to his word, Harold Sutton appeared at the 
door of the poor home which beer had cursed, and 
presently Will Winter whispered to his aunt : 

‘^The boss of the shop has come for father to go 
to work again. The others will be awful mad if he 
does, but I wouldn’t mind anything about that, 
would you?” 

^^No, I shouldn’t,” was replied, and then Will 
hastened back to his post of observation, from which 
he could see if not hear. 

The interview was prolonged. There was evident- 
ly a reluctance on Mr. Winter’s part to accept the 
conditions offered. When he came in he made no 
allusion to what had occurred, but after eating his 
breakfast, he said abruptly : 

The strike is ended as far as I am concerned. 1 
am going to the shop ; and, Mary, there is a dollar 
for dinner.” 

He waited for no reply to this announcement. At 
noon no one asked him any questions, but Robert, 
who had watched him closely while on the street, 
was positive that he did not visit any saloon, although 
repeatedly asked to join an old comrade in drink- 
ing. 

I tell you, wouldn’t it be a big thing for us il 
father should give up beer and tobacco ? ” exclaimed 


28 i 


The Wo7^king-Mans Loaf. 

the boy. He hasn’t smoked a whiff to-day ; I 
know he hasn’t. He couldn’t smoke in the shop 
and I have watched him the rest of the time.” 

In the evening Mr. V/inter had another interview 
with his sister, who, to use her own words, worked 
and prayed hard all day. 

“ I have lived through one twenty-four hours 
without beer or tobacco; but whether I can keep it 
up is more than I know,” he said seriously. But 
there is one thing certain. Tobacco must go first. 
I can never endure the tobacco thirst without beer. 
There was not another man in the shop to-day, ex- 
cept Sutton, and there is a drive of work. If I was 
as I used to be, ten years ago, I could earn two dol- 
lars more before going to bed, but I can’t trust my- 
self now. The half loaf would be larger if I 
could.” 

It would be large enough as it is, if your family 
could only be sure of it.” 

They shall have it. I can promise that, what- 
ever happens. They shall have half I earn, whether 
much or little.” 

And the other half, brother ? ” 

I can not promise about that.” 

He was up early, the next morning, but Mrs. 
Stearns was early as he; so that, if he intended go- 
ing to the saloon, he had no opportunity. After 
breakfast she walked with him to the shop, thus 
preventing all annoyance ‘from disaffected work- 
men. 

Mrs. Winter made a great gain that day. She 
was interested in what was going on around her, 


282 


The Workhig-Majis Loaf. 

and 0V0n talk0d of what sh0 could do for hor family 
if sh0 had monoy at hor disposal. 

Mothor us0d to say I had a knack for cutting 
and fitting, and making old things over; but it is so 
long since I tried, I had almost forgotten about it. 
I think I could make you a real pretty apron, Mary.’' 

I wish you would,” Mary replied, delighted at 
the change in her mother. I have some money 
left from my marketing; enough to buy the material 
for an apron, and you and Aunt Rachel can go and 
buy it.” 

‘'Yes, and while we are out we will call on Mrs. 
Landaff,” said Aunt Rachel. " I know she will be 
glad to see us.” 

Of course Mrs. Winter made many objections to 
going out, but these were overruled. She was sen- 
sitive in regard to her personal appearance, and this 
was considered a sure sign of improvement. The 
shopping was accomplished, the call made, and the 
tenement, soon to be vacated, examined. Mrs. 
Stearns was rejoiced that the tenement was ap- 
proved. 

“ It seems as though, if we could move in here, 
we could start new again,” said her companion. It 
would be the making of the boys, and Mary could 
have such a pleasant room, it wouldn’t be so hard 
for her to live with us.” 

There were better days in store for the family 
which had fallen so low. • Mr. Winter had not been 
consulted in regard to moving; but there was no 
doubt that he would acquiesce in the plan. 

Thus far he had been unmolested, but there were 


The Working-Mans Loaf, 283 

two parties who felt themselves aggrieved by his 
defection: the saloon-keepers, and the striking work- 
men. They proposed to bring him back into the 
ranks; by fair means, if these proved effective; by 
foul means, if these failed. 

On his way home, the second evening after re- 
turning to his work, he encountered several of his 
old comrades, who insisted that he should go with 
them through the street he wished most to avoid. 
When opposite the beer-saloon, which had been his 
favorite resort, they attempted to force him to enter; 
which so aroused his anger, that he tore himself 
away, and hurrying through a back alley, hoped 
thus to elude them. But in this he was mistaken. 
They met him again near Blunt’s whisky-saloon, 
and made another push to overpower him. 

‘‘Come in and have a social time with your old 
friends,” said the smiling proprietor, throwing the 
door wide open. 

“Never, so help me God !” cried the now furious 
man. “I am not to be driven by a hundred of you. 
I will never enter this saloon alive. Things have 
come to a strange pass, when a man is to be driven 
into a trap like a wild beast. Hands off. Go where 
you will, but don’t try to drive me.” 

By this tim.e a policeman interfered, and Mr. Win- 
ter was allowed to go his way without further mo- 
lestation. 

“The men were half drunk,” he said whet.i de- 
scribing the encounter. “ They have been drinking 
hard since they quit work, and nobody knows where 
they will stop.” 


284 The Working-Mmis Loaf. 

Where stop ?” asked Luke, by no means 

realizing the full import of his question. 

“Stop!’’ repeated the father. ‘‘Where will I 
stop ? I have stopped. I have smoked my last whiff 
of tobacco, and drank my last glass of beer or 
whisky.” 

“ Good for you, father,” exclaimed Luke. “ I will 
swear off with you, and we will see what we can do.” 

“So will I,” rejoined Clem. 

“ And I too,” added Will. 

“As for me, I swore off more than a year ago,’* 
said Robert. 

“ Thank God,” said Mrs. Stearns reverently. 
“ Let us thank Him on our knees.” 


CHAPTER X. 


AN ERRAND OF MERCY. 

How Mr. Winter lived through the next two weeks 
he hardly knew. There were times when it seemed 
to him that the craving for his old stimulants would 
drive him insane. He counted every hour of the day 
as bringing him nearer to the night, and every hour of 
the night, as bringing him nearer to another day. 
He was insensible to the jeers and ridicule heaped 
upon him, because of the mental and physical tor- 
ture he endured in the conflict with himself. 

His family had moved from the old, dismal tene- 
ment into one made bright and cheerful with the 
sunlight which flooded the rooms. His wages, paid 
each Saturday night, had been divided, as promised, 
and one-half placed at the disposal of his wife and 
daughter. He was ready to give the whole, but this 
was not allowed. 

Half a loaf, and only half,*' said Mary, who was 
held responsible for the marketing. ‘^That was the 
agreement, and we will abide by it.’' 

But I can never spend so much on myself,” he 
replied. “ It is not much I need besides what 1 
share with the rest of you. I shall soon have a 
large surplus.” 

Which you can invest for your own benefit, 
father, in the v/ay that will do you most good.” 

(285) 


286 The Working-Man s Loaf. 

His sister said to him much the same ; and as fof 
his wife, she was in a state of constant surprise. 
She was surprised at the change in her husband ; 
surprised that so much of comfort could be pur- 
chased for so small an amount of money ; and most 
of all, she was surprised at what she was, herself, 
able to accomplish. 

She caught the spirit of activity from her family ; 
and worked, sometimes, quite beyond her strength. 
She had forsworn beer ; taking in its stead a simple 
tonic prepared by her sister-in-law. 

There was economical planning to save in one 
place, that more might be spent in another ; yet 
three good substantial meals were placed upon the 
neatly laid table every day. There was strong 
coffee for the father, tea for the mother, and plenty 
of rich milk for all who chose to drink it. 

Thanks to Aunt RacheFs energy and industry, 
the boys were made ready for school. The two 
weeks of her proposed visit had lengthened into 
three, and the time for her return could be no longer 
delayed. Mary was almost disheartened at the 
thought of being left, but she was encouraged to 
hope for the best. 

You will have six to help you,’’ said Mrs. Stearns, 
as they talked of the future. It will be better 
for you all to depend upon yourselves. Your father 
is having a hard battle, but I believe he will conquer. 
You must persuade him to attend church with you. 
There was a time when it seemed to me he was al- 
most persuaded to be a Christian ; and now, if ever, 
he needs the safeguard of religion. I am thankful 


287 


The Working-Man s Loaf, 

the boys are fairly enlisted for the Sunday-school, 
but you must remember that they will need con- 
stant encouragement. I shall go home, feeling that 
you are all doing well.’' 

O, Aunt Rachel, I wish I could go with you. 
It tires me to think of what is before me. 1 feel so 
old too. It seems as though I had lived a great 
many years since I came here, and now, if things go 
wrong after you leave us, I shall think the fault is 
mine.” 

No wonder that this young girl shrank from the 
responsibilities which had been thrown upon her. 
The work had been well begun ; but to effect its 
purpose, it must continue. While there was no lack 
of money for comfortable living, there was some- 
times lack of strength to make it most available. 

Mrs. Landaff’s friendship never failed them ; and 
now that they lived in an adjoining house, they con- 
sulted her on all occasions. Ernest Landaff exerted 
a strong influence over the boys of the family, who 
regarded him with profound admiration. Like his 
mother, he delighted in being of service to others, 
and was quick to see where this could be done. 

There is trouble in store for the men who struck 
with Mr. Winter,” he said, one evening, when he 
came in from his work. “ They have been idle two 
months, and the result has not been what they ex- 
pected. They have neglected their families, and 
spent more than half their time in drinking-saloons 
or places no better. The Union has notified them 
that, after this week, they must expect no more as- 
sistance. Of course the saloon-keepers will not 


288 The Working-Mans Loaf, 

trust them unless there is a prospect of being 
paid/’ 

“ All the better for the men,” replied Mrs. Landaff. 

“ I know it is, and I wish they would see it so. 
Three-quarters of the money given by the Union 
has been spent for beer, whisky, and tobacco. I 
suppose that seems a large estimate to you, mother, 
but when a man accustomed to their use has no 
employment, he drinks and smokes, almost as a ne- 
cessity, to kill time, which hangs heavy on his hands. 
One of the strikers has a sick daughter, about 
twelve years old, who is really suffering for the 
want of proper food. One of the shop hands told 
me about her to-day, and I thought you and Mary 
Winter better go and see her.” 

“ Why not go this evening, Ernest ? If the child 
needs help, the sooner she has it, the better. A great 
deal may happen before to-morrow.” 

When a good deed was to be done, Mrs. Landaff 
was not one to delay its performance. So she, with her 
son, called at Mr. Winter’s, where the story was told. 

“ Ray has been just wild ever since he left the 
shop,” said Mr. Winter. “ I have seen him nearly 
every day, and I have never^|een him when he was 
quite sober. I think he has given up drinking beer, 
and taken to whisky. I am sorry for Alice and her 
mother. Ray isn’t a bad-hearted fellow, but men 
who do as he is doing forget their families at home.” 

“ Why don’t you carry something real good to the 
sick girl ? ” now asked Clem. “ And you might talk 
to the man, too, father. You ought to know how,” 
added the boy. 


The Working-Tvian s Loaf. 289 

It was the first time Mr. Winter had thought of 
working to reform others ; but after a little con- 
sideration, he decided to accompany Mrs. Landaff 
and his daughter on their errand of mercy. 

We have come to see your sick girl,'’ responded 
the elder woman, when they were invited to enter the 
plain room, which contained not a single unneces- 
sary article of furniture. 

have hardly a chair to offer you, but any one 
who comes to see my Alice is welcome,” replied the 
mother. 

Mr. Winter said nothing; but he carried a basket, 
from which he took several packages, each contain- 
ing some delicacy to tempt the appetite of an in- 
valid. Mary was obliged to speak for him, which 
she did in the kindest possible manner. 

can never thank you enough,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Ray, with tears in her eyes. Alice has had noth- 
ing to-day but corn-meal gruel. I thought the Lord 
had quite forgotten us. I could bear it for myself, 
but Alice could hardly swallow the gruel.” 

Where is your husband ? ” asked Mrs. Landaff. 
have not seen him since morning,” answered 
Mrs. Ray. “ I don't know where he is, but likely he 
is somewhere where there is liquor. Alice don't 
like to have me say it, but what else can I say ? 

Curse the beer and whisky, and But I won't 

curse the men who sell it. They will have enough 
to suffer, without my curses.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


SOMETHING TO DRINK. 

Mr. Winter stayed to hear no more. Every word 
condemned his own past life. He, too, had forgot- 
ten promises, ignored responsibilities, and neglected 
his most sacred duties. He was scarcely less guilty 
than his old comrade, Ray, who had left wife and 
child to depend upon others. He rushed from the 
room, without speaking to the sick girl, sympathy 
for whom had brought him there. 

Mrs. Landaff and Mary remained; the latter soon 
making the acquaintance of Alice Ray, and receiv- 
ing the heartiest thanks for unexpected kindness. 
The child had been so tired and so anxious, waiting 
for the return of her father, who promised to be 
home early. 

“ I always think he means to come, no matter how 
many times he doesnT come,** she said with a sigh. 
^‘He would be good, if it wasn’t for the bad drink. 
I know your father is good, or he wouldn’t have 
brought me so many good things. Couldn’t he talk 
to my father, and tell him how much better he 
could be ? You ask him to, won’t you ? ” 

Yes,” answered Mary, wondering how she should 
make the request. 

Meanwhile as Mr. Winter was walking rapidly 
(ago) 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 291 

down the street, he met Mr. Ray, to whom he said 
cordially : 

Good - evening. I am glad to see you. Come 
home with me, and let us have a talk together.'* 

Will you give me something to drink ? I couldn't 
think of talking when I am so dry," was replied. 

I will give you something to drink and some- 
thing to eat. So come right along with me." 

Evidently, Ray was out of funds, or he would not 
have been on the street at that time in the evening. 
He was in a reckless mood, and went with Mr. Win- 
ter, because anything was preferable to going home. 
He had gambled away what little money he had in 
the morning, and knew not where he was to get 
more. 

“ Do you live here ? " he asked, as his companion 
stopped before a respectable - looking house. I 
thought you lived further down. I don't see how 
you can afford to pay rent in such a house as this." 

“Come in, and I will tell you all about it, besides 
a good many other things, it will do you good to 
know," was replied. 

The front room, which the boys had already 
learned to call the parlor, contained but few articles 
of furniture; yet, as the evening was warm, Mr. 
Winter invited his guest to a seat in this room. 
Then he went to the kitchen, and asked his wife to 
make some strong coffee, and send it in by Robert, 
with sugar and milk, and whatever else would suit 
the appetite of a tired, discouraged man. 

Ernest Landaff, who was giving the boys a lesson 
in simple mechanics, begged the privilege of pre 


292 The Working-Mans Loaf, 

paring the coffee, which he was allowed to do, and 
also to arrange the tray Robert carried to his father. 

Coffee ! ” muttered Ray, beginning to suspect 
his host of some concealed purpose in bringing him 
there. Did you invite me to come home wdth you 
for the sake of drinking a cup of coffee ? 

‘‘Yes, for that, and the talk we are going to have,** 
was replied frankly. “It is what I drink, and it 
does me good. It will do you good too. Put in 
plenty of sugar and milk, and then take a sandwich 
for a relish. After that, you can try some of my 
wife*s gingerbread. Coffee is a good deal better for 
us both than beer, and this is a better place than a 
beer-saloon for us to spend our evenings in.** 

Mr. Ray was entirely at fault. He knew not what 
to say, but he was thirsty, and the coffee was good. 
So he drank ; and after some urging, he proceeded 
to eat ; declaring, as he did so, that he had never 
relished any food so much. Then he drank more 
coffee, and gradually his reserve gave way. 

“ Is the shop full ? ** he asked somewhat hesi- 
tatingly. 

“Your place is not permanently filled,** answered 
Mr. Winter. “ There is a chance for you to come 
back, if you come soon, and accept the conditions.** 

“ What are the conditions ? ** 

“ The company have posted a notice that no man 
will be employed by them who drinks beer or any 
other kind of liquor.** 

“ Then I shall never do another stroke of work 
for them. It is none of their business what I drink, 
I am a free man, not a slave to them or any one else, 


293 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 

I shall do as I please. You may drink slops as long 
as you want to, but I am bound to have something 
stronger.’’ 

In his excitement the speaker would have rushed 
from the room, but his host detained him, saying in 
an earnest tone : 

“Ray, I know as well as you do that the Union 
has shut down on you, and you must go to work, or 
starve, or beg. You and I have drank together, and 
spent our money, when our families ought to have 
had it. A large part of what I earned went for beer 
and tobacco, and sometimes for whisky ; but I never 
calculated exactly how much, until I quit the whole 
thing. We are living now on half of my wages, 
and we live well enough. Perhaps you have given 
your wife more money for her house-keeping than I 
gave mine, though she wouldn’t need so much. 
There are seven of us, and only three of you. I 
have five children, and you but one.” 

“ Only one, and she, poor thing, is sick. That 
makes me think. I promised to carry her some- 
thing good to eat, to-day, but when I got with the 
men, I forgot her. I don’t know what she will do. 
There wasn’t much for her or her mother, and I 
haven’t a cent left to buy anything for them.” 

“ They have all they need for to-night and to- 
morrow.” 

“ How do you know ? Has any one told you ? 
Have you seen them ? ” 

“Yes, I was coming from your room when I met 
you. I carried them enough, so they will be com- 
fortable for a day or two. We heard how badly off 
they were, and went to help them.” 


294 Working-Mans Loaf. 

Don't tell me my wife and child are objects of 
charity. Don't tell me that my Alice and her 
mother are beggars." 

They did not beg. One of our neighbors told 
us that your sick girl needed different food from 
what she had ; so I spent a dollar or two for her. 
And, Ray, I don't think I went there any too soon. 
My daughter is there now, and if anybody can do 
your Alice good, she can." 

Mercy ! what have I come to ! " exclaimed Ray. 
‘^Winter, tell me what to do. I believe I have quite 
lost my head. My rent is due to-morrow, and my 
pockets are empty. I have given Blunt an order on 
my week's allowance from the Union, and there is 
no more to come. What shall I do? For pity's sake 
tell me." 

Do as I did. Swear off from beer, tobacco, and 
whisky, and go back to work." 

But I can't ask Sutton to take me back ; and 
besides. Winter, I don't believe I could live on the 
cold-water plan." 

‘^Live on the coffee plan, as I do. You would 
have a rough fight, but you have only to keep steady 
at it, and you will come out ahead. Do it for the 
sake of your wife and your Alice, if not for your- 
self. Go to Sutton to-night, and ask him to let you 
take your old place to-morrow. He will make it a 
condition that you stop drinking, but you ought to 
do that anyway." 

How about tobacco ? " 

He will leave that to yourself. But I tell you 
that tobacco must go with the beer, or you will be 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 295 

crazy with thirst. Come, Ray, I will go to Sutton 
with you.” 

‘‘ I can’t. I never can come down to that. I would 
rather try my luck somewhere else.” 

“You can do better in the old place than any- 
where else. You have nothing to live on, either, 
while you are hunting up another place. Be a man, 
Ray, and build yourself up where you have let 
yourself down. The men v/orking at our trade, even 
with the cut-down, can make good wages. You 
know that as well as I do ; and if we are poor, after 
working as many years as we have, it is our own 
fault.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


A HELPING HAND. 

In her second appeal to Harold Sutton, Mrs. Lan- 
daff was too late. Mr. Winter had been there be- 
fore her, and with him was Mr. Ray, who had hardly 
recovered from what was little better than a long 
debauch. He could not speak for himself, but he 
endorsed all that was said in his behalf, and prom- 
ised to abstain from the use of all intoxicating 
drinks. If I go to drinking again, you will never 
see me afterward,*’ he said, with an emphasis which 
gave to his words a fearful meaning. I will never 
ask you to give me a second trial.” • 

I trust there will be no need of that,” replied 
Mr. Sutton. “Your friend, here, is to be surety for 
your good conduct, and I shall be glad to have you 
back at work. If I was in the habit of speaking in 
public, I should certainly come out as a temperance 
lecturer. The money of too many men goes into 
the till of the saloon-keeper, instead of being spent 
for their families. 

“ Why, my friends, if I had drank beer, or v/hisky, 
or even used tobacco, I don’t know but my mother’s 
family v/ould have been in the poorhouse. My 
father died when I was fourteen years old, and there 
were five children younger. When the expenses of 

(296) 


The Working-Mans Loaf, 297 

my father's sickness and burial were paid, my mother 
had left only ten dollars, with enough of plain fur- 
niture for plain housekeeping. 

'' It was not my father’s fault that he was poor in 
this world’s goods, but it was a blessing to us that 
he was rich in a consistent religious character. He 
looked far into the future for his children; and see- 
ing the danger to which they would be exposed, 
warned us to avoid it. He called us around his 
death-bed, and there exacted from us a promise 
never to touch the cursed drink. We have all kept 
the promise, and to this day I do not know the taste 
any intoxicating liquor.” 

I wish I could say that,” responded Ray earnest- 
ly. “ I began with beer when I was a boy, and here 
I am, so poor that my wife and my Alice must be 
fed by my neighbors.” 

Feed some other man’s wife and child, and so 
pay the debt,” was replied. ‘‘ There is only a step 
between poverty and independence. When you 
have made those dependent upon you comfortable, 
and you are comfortable with them, it needs only a 
few dollars in your pocket to make 3^ou as rich as 
your neighbor. Ask Winter about it. He says his 
family are living on half a loaf ; half of his wages.” 

I don’t see how he can do it,” said Ray. 

I do, because I know, b^ experience, how much 
of real, solid comfort can be bought with compara- 
tively little money. I didn’t tell you that, with what 
we children could earn, and our mother’s economy, 
we kept together and had a respectable home, with 
enough to eat and drink. We were clothed, too, so 


298 The Working-Mafi s Loaf. 

that we went to church every Sunday; and, my 
friends, there were months and months when we 
had no more than a dollar a day to meet all our ex- 
penses. Mother did the planning, and made the 
mo»t of what we had. It was close work, but we 
came out all right. How do you think it would 
have been if my brothers and myself had taken to 
beer and tobacco ? ” 

“ You would have been as poor as I am,” answered 
Ray; adding: “I thank you, Mr. Sutton, for giving 
us this bit of your experience. I didn’t know you 
had been down on a level with us.” 

“ Bless you, friend, I began at the foot of the lad- 
der, and worked my way up. I worked hard too. 
There is not a man in the shop who has worked 
harder than I have, and I must keep on working.” 

It may be that Harold Sutton was moved to speak 
thus frankly by a remark of his old friend, Mrs. 
Landaff, who said to him : “ Remember the way 
you have come, and have a kind word and a helping 
hand for others who are climbing the hill.” 

Nothing else could so have touched the heart of 
Mr. Ray; and when he went home, late that even- 
ing, he was like a child trying to walk in a new 
path. 

“ O father, I spread the table for you long ago,” 
cried Alice, reaching o»t her hands toward him. 
“ A good man came and brought me ever so many 
things. There was a nice old lady with him, too, 
and a girl, just four years older than I am. The 
man didn t stay long, but I had a real nice time 
with the girl, and she promised to come again. I 


The Working-Mans Loaf. 299 

told mother I wanted to set the table for you, and 
she bolstered me up in a chair, so I could/’ 

Alice was so eager to recount the events of the 
evening, that she gave her father no opportunity to 
speak, until she had quite exhausted her strength. 
Then she looked at him more closely, and quick to 
see the change in his appearance, asked : 

“ What is the matter, father ? Are you sick ? ” 
No,” he replied, and then, turning to his wife, 
said : I am going back to work in the morning, 
and when I come home at night, I will bring you 
every cent I earn. There will be only a day’s wages, 
but that will be more than you have had this long 
time.” 

‘‘What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Ray, coming 
close to her husband, and looking him steadily in 
the face. 

“I mean — I mean — that I am going to be dif- 
ferent. I have had supper at Winter’s, and he went 

with me to see Sutton, and ” Here he broke 

down and could say no more. He, with his wife, 
knelt by their daughter’s couch, where they all 
wept ; scarce knowing why, and yet unable to re- 
strain their tears. It was nearly morning before he 
slept, yet he was in season for his work ; and true 
to his word, he carried his day’s wages home and 
placed the amount in his wife’s hands. 

With this she was able to provide better food than 
usual for the Sabbath. Alice, too, had her share, in 
addition to what Mr. Winter had brought to her. 

Ernest Landaff carried in some papers for Sunday 
reading ; yet with all the home attractions, Mr. Ray 


300 The Working-Mans Loaf, 

was restless and impatient. At evening, when Mr 
Winter called to invite him to attend a service in a 
chapel near by, he would have been glad to accept 
the invitation. 

“But I never can be seen with these shabby 
clothes beside your new suit,” he said regretfully. 
“ I am too proud for that, low as I have gone.” 

His friend did not stop to urge him to change his 
decision ; but going directly out, soon returned in 
his working dress, saying : 

“ Now you have no excuse.” 

“ That is true. Winter, and I thank you for taking 
it away. I am glad to go with you.” 

So in one of the back pews of the chapel sat two 
roughly dressed men, listening as for their lives to 
the old prophet's invitation : “ Ho, every one that 
thirsteth, come ye to the waters.” 

This invitation was repeated over and over. It 
was enforced by the most tender personal appeals ; 
every word emphasized, and every motive urged for 
its acceptance. 

When the short sermon was ended, the speaker 
asked any one present who had not yet drank of the 
waters of life, but who desired to do so, to manifest 
this desire by rising. 

No sooner was this nvitation given, than Mr. 
Ray sprang to his feet ; forgetting all things else in 
the one great longing whiclr filled his heart. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE WORKING-MAN. 

‘‘ Another temptation, and another unprincipled 
capitalist to take large slices from the working-man’s 
loaf,” remarked one gentleman to another, as they 
were standing opposite the saloon, the opening of 
which had so troubled Robert Winter. 

“Yes, and the strangest part of it is : 'the work- 
ing-man seems not to realize how large a part of 
his loaf is thus taken away from him,” was replied. 

“ He does not realize it. But now that we are 
upon the subject, have you ever thought that, with 
few exceptions, the men of this country are all 
working-men ? ” 

“I have thought of it, and I consider it unfor- 
tunate that those who follow certain occupations 
should be singled out as pre-eminently the working- 
men. I am not sure but it has something to do 
with the feeling of antagonism between labor and 
capital.” 

“ I am quite sure that it has. Those who work 
under the direction of others are inclined to con- 
sider their employers as mere task-masters, wresting 
from them unrequited labor. For one, I was never 
so happy as Vv^hen I worked on a fair, living salar3^ 
I knew exactly how much I could spend, and still 
lay by a little every year. I am richer than I was 

(301) 


302 The Working-Mans Loaf. 

then ; but I work harder and have a thousand times 
more anxiety/' 

That is my experience ; and besides being 
anxious for myself, the older I grow, the more 
anxious I am for my neighbors. I am both grieved 
and indignant, when I see so many drinking-saloons 
opened in all parts of our city, sapping the very life 
of our community, and bringing poverty to thou- 
sands of families." 

The gentlemen who had expressed their opinions 
thus freely, passed on, without observing a bright- 
eyed boy who, basket in hand, stood where he could 
hear all they had said. This boy was Luke Winter, 
always on the lookout for new ideas, as his first 
question after reaching home proved. 

Mary, what kind of a loaf is the working-man's 
loaf ? " he asked eagerly. 

His sister looking up in surprise, and giving him 
no direct answer, he proceeded to repeat what he 
had heard. 

''I understand it now," she said. ‘'AwovVing- 
man's loaf is his wages." 

I see, I see," exclaimed Luke. That is it ex- 
actly, and that gentleman told the truth abo it the 
saloon-keepers taking big slices. They are just like 
some boys when they want a bite of an apple. They 
open their mouth as wide as they can, and take 
every bit they can get. The man in the new saloon 
asked me to do a job of work for him this morniuo', 
and said he would pay me well for it ; but I told 
him I wouldn't stay 'round a saloon for a dollar a 
minute, and I wouldn't ; would you ?" 


The Working-Mans Loaf, 303 

‘'No; you must keep out of the way of tempta- 
tion, if you would keep your pledge.” 

" I mean to. The fellows I used to go with are 
all down on me, but I don’t care for that. I just 
keep preaching to them ; and telling them how 
much better off they would be, if they would take 
the same pledge I have. Wasn’t it awful, to live as 
we used to ? ” 

“ It was awful to me.” 

"It would have been to me, if I had known 
enough. I see now all about our half loaf, as Aunt 
Rachel called it. It means half of father’s wages, 
and it is a pretty big piece, when he earns as much 
as he did last week. I should think we might almost 
have a carpet for the parlor.” 

"We can, almost, but not quite.” 

"O Mary, what does genius mean? Ernest 
Landaff says Robert is a genius, and I want to know 
what that means. There are so many things I want 
to know, I am afraid I never shall find them all out. 
I think of more things all the time. I waked up in 
the night, and I wanted to go into your room and 
ask you lots of questions ; but I went off to sleep, 
and this morning something else crowded them out 
of my mind.” 

A " sharp boy ” was Luke Winter, as everybody 
who knew him said, and as his father had frequent 
occasion to remember. The idea of the working- 
man’s loaf had taken full possession of him. He 
never saw a man going into a drinking-saloon, with- 
out calculating how large a slice would be left on 
the counter. 


304 The Working-Mans Loaf. 

That is what is the matter with so many women 
and children who don’t have enough to eat,” he 
said, one day, to his father. tell you, I don’t 
mean to make bread for saloon-keepers to gobble 
up.” 

^ When talking with Mr. Ray upon this subject, 
Mr. Winter expressed the same opinion ; his com- ‘ 
panion replying : 

If men realized they were spending more money 
for liquor and tobacco than for their families, I be- 
lieve they would stop. The truth is. Winter, I never 
stopped to think anything about it. I earned my 
money, and when I had it in my pocket, I spent it 
for what I wanted first. If anybody had told me 
then that I was a fool, I should have resented it, 
but they would have told the truth.” 

“ I was a fool, too, Ray, but I can not say that I 
never thought how much money I was spending. I 
did think, and it made me cross ; but I had such a 
craving for beer and tobacco, that I didn’t care for 
anything else. I don’t know where I should be, by 
this time, if I had kept on. Mr. Sutton thinks it a 
moderate estimate, that one - quarter of all the 
money paid to mechanics and common laborers, in 
this city, is spent for what really injures them. I 
should set it higher than that. In the last two 
years I have not averaged to spend as much as a 
quarter of my wages for my family.” 

Neither have I, and all the time my poor sick 
girl has been pining for the want of what I would 
not give her. May God forgive me, and help me to 
do better in future. You have five children and I 
have only Alice. I shall do all I can for her.” 


The Working-Man s Loaf. 305 

And I shall do all I can for my five.” 

“You ought to, Winter. Robert can fill your 
place at the lathe, and more too, if you give him a 
chance.” 

“He shall have a chance, and so shall the rest of 
my children. My wife and I begin to talk of send- 
ing Mary to school. We haven't said anything to 
her about it, but we think we can manage to bring 
it around.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE PRIZE. 

It had been Robert Winter’s ambition to know 
as much as Ernest Landaff ; but when he took the 
prize for the best mechanical drawing — a prize for 
which this friend also competed — he was utterly 
amazed at his good fortune. 

^‘Why, Mary, it almost takes my breath away, 
just to think of it,” he said to his sister. can 
hardly believe it ; and it seems to me now that the 
prize really belongs to Ernest. Mr. Otterson has 
always said he was a splendid draughtsman.” 

‘‘No one doubts that, and Ernest has always said 
that you are a genius.” 

“ I am what you and he have made me. Think 
what I was three years ago, when you came home 
from Uncle Daniel’s. Why, Mary, it doesn’t seem as 
though we could live a week as we did then. 'And 
look at father. He used to go slouching along 
through the streets, as if he was ashamed of 
himself. Now he stands up straight, and puts his 
feet down fair and square. I am beginning to be 
proud of him.” 

“ And of mother too ? ” 

“Yes. She has changed as much as father. They 
have kept right along together. They couldn’t help 
(306) 


The Working-Matis Loaf, 307 

it, with you doing as much as you have ; and I sup- 
pose we must thank Aunt Rachel for that/* 

'' Aunt Rachel will be very glad to hear you have 
gained the prize.** 

So am I glad; but I don*t care so much for that, 
as I do for knowing what I want to. The rest of 
you are welcome to all the praise, and the hundred 
dollars besides.** 

Robert’s brothers wSre very proud of him; glad, 
too, that he had earned so much money. 

‘‘ Now we shall be all right for Christmas,’* said 
Luke, clapping his hands. I tell you, I have raked 
and scraped every cent I could get hold of, but I 
began to be afraid we boys couldn’t do our part. 
You can give fifty dollars, and have fifty for your- 
self. Won’t Mary be surprised, and won’t she begin 
to think she is getting some of her pay for having 
such a hard time, when she first came to live with 
us ? I had rather wait for the new house another 
year, and then have more things to put in it.” 

This question of waiting longer for a new house 
had been seriously considered by Mr. Winter; and 
as he could rent a larger tenement in the neighbor- 
hood where he had lived, he decided to do so. 

He was earning better wages than ever before ; 
doing the finest work in his line, and counted reli- 
able An all things. His children were in school, 
making good progress in their studies, and ranking 
high as scholars. The entire family were constant 
attendants at church, and Sunday-school; respect- 
able and respected. 

Mary had developed a talent for music, and her 


3 o 8 The Working-Man s Loaf. 

brothers, who thought there was never another sister 
like her, resolved that she should have a piano. For 
a year they had been planning to accomplish this, 
and Robert's prize made it sure that it would be 
purchased as a Christmas present. 

Uncle Daniel and Aunt Rachel, and all the cousins, 
were invited to spend the holidays in the city ; but 
the young people were otherwise engaged, so that 
only their parents accepted *the invitation. The 
presence, however, of these two caused a general 
rejoicing, and they, in turn, rejoiced at the prosper- 
ity and happiness they witnessed. 

Christmas morning, while Mary Winter was mak- 
ing an early call upon Mrs. Landaff, the new piano 
was put in place ; and upon her return, Robert at- 
tempted a presentation speech. In this, however, 
he failed ; and Luke came to his assistance, by ex- 
claiming : 

‘Mt is yours, and we all helped pay for it. Now 
I hope you won't be sorry you came to live with us 
when we didn't live decent." 

Sorry! " repeated Mary, looking around from one 
to another. I never can thank you enough for doing 
so much for me." 

She could say no more for the sobs which choked 
her voice; and of them all. Aunt Rachel was first to 
regain self-control ; singing Coronation, as the most 
fitting expression of her feelings. Others joined ; 
and at last, when Mary played the accompaniment, 
it was like a grand burst of praise from grateful 
hearts. 

Mingled with so much of gratitude for past mer- 


The Working-Mans Loaf, 309 

cies, there were bright anticipations for the future ; 
many of which have been realized. Two years of 
well-remunerated labor on the part of Mr. Winter, 
with the hearty co-operation of his wife, made it 
possible for him to build a commodious house, with- 
out decreasing the allowance for his children. 

Mr. Ray and himself had purchased adjoining 
lots of land, just beyond the city limits, not long 
after signing a pledge of total abstinence; paying 
for them in instalments, and so preparing the way 
for permanent homes. Their houses stand side by 
side; their gardens are laid out according to the 
same plan, and their families are on the most inti- 
mate terms. 

Mrs. Landaff regretted that they should go so far 
from her; yet she, too, hopes to have a home near 
them, when Ernest shall give to her a daughter. 
Certain it is that Mary Winter will use her influence 
to accomplish this, and Ernest Landaff is reasonably 
certain to be governed by her wishes. 

It is yet too soon to predict what the future will 
bring to the boys of Mr. Winter’s household, but 
thus far .they give promise of useful and successful 
lives. 

They are still eating from the working-man’s loaf; 
and as Luke says, “a grand, good loaf it is; fresh 
baked every day, and increased in size, as the appe- 
tite of the family demands.” 


THE END, 




DRINKING JACK 


¥ 


I 



. < 

i 




t 



»■ 

( 




I 


) 


% 


% 


\ 

I 

I 

1 


• f 

1 


I. 

I 

t| 

I 


1 


'A 


A 

0 

fi 





■\ 

? 


>. 


j 


r 

v\ 

f 





DRINKING JACK. 


CHAPTER I. 

If ever dwellers by the sea had reason to thank God * 
for shelter, it was on the evening of the second day of 
the year 1850. Over thirty years have passed; but 
the storm which then raged is not forgotten by those of 
whom I shall write in this story. 

It was where a bold, rocky coast, against which the 
waves beat ceaselessly, walled in the seething waters of 
the Atlantic. Yrom these very cliffs beacon-lights had 
gleamed in the olden time, warning the sailor of danger ; 
and during the struggle of our fathers v/ith England, 
signals had flashed and flamed for distant watches. 

But on the night in question, there was neither signal 
nor beacon-light ; no vessels in the offing, and no war in 
our borders. Darkness brooded over land and sea. 

Two miles distant there was a village, whose well- 
built houses and well-kept streets attested New England 
thrift and industry. Between this and the shore there 
were several dwellings, more or less pretentious, accord- 
ing to the means of their owners ; while the very fur- 
thest from the village, and poorest of all, was the home 
of John Neal. 


3 1 4 Drinking Jack. 

Home ! It seems a desecration of this word, suggest- 
ive as it is of comfort and all kindly affections, to apply 
it to a place v/here there are none of these, even though 
such place holds wife and children. 

“ Drinking Jack” was the name by which John Neal 
was known in the community, and this reveals his char- 
acter. He could work, and ^f^work, whenever it suited 
his pleasure or convenience. If a job requiring both 
strength and skill was to be done, Jack’s services were 
in requisition, if he could be kept sober. 

Yet, a terrible man and a most brutalized sot, he was 
despised by all, while he was pitied by none. His wife 
and children received sympathy. But he ! Who cared 
for him 1 Reform was not to be thought of in his case. 
His only redeeming quality lay in his ability to labor, 
and his death would have been counted a blessing. 

“ If he should lose his way to-night, and fall from the 
rocks, the world would be rid of one wretch,” said a 
man who saw him leaving a cellar, just at dark. He 
don’t walk very straight, and this wind may blow some 
good, after all. I wouldn’t undertake to find the old hut 
to-night.” 

“ A tough storm,” said another, in reply. ‘‘ If it wasn’t 
in a sheltered place, the old hut would blow away before 
morning, and its owner be none the poorer.” 

Drinking Jack was a tall, well-built man, whose 
breadth of chest and strength of muscle were in them* 
selves a promise of long life. Any ordinar}^ constitu- 
tion would have given way, years before, under the 
strain to which his had been subjected, although he was 
scarcely past middle life. 

‘‘Going home. Jack.?” asked a rough-looking man 


Drinking J ack. 3 1 5 

who encountered him just as he was passing the outer- 
most limits of the village. 

Yes/’ he answered with a fearful oath. 

“ Better mind your steps, then. Lucky it rains. Cold 
water may do you good. A dirty storm, though. I’m 
ready to turn in.” 

Turn in, then, out of my way.” And an oath added 
emphasis to the remark. 

So long as he followed the road, he found no diffi- 
culty, even when the increased fury of the storm caused 
him to mutter curses between his teeth. About three- 
quarters of a mile from home, he paused by the last 
house he would pass, and considered if he should enter. 
Through the uncurtained window he saw a group gath- 
ered around a well-spread table. 

Warmth and food within ; cold and hunger without. 
Bad as he was, low as he had fallen, the doors of this 
house would not be shut upon him. Irresolute, he lin- 
gered, until a man’s face was turned to the window, 
when, with a horrid imprecation, he strode on. 

A little further, he turned to the right. By this time 
his clothing was completely soaked, and his boots sod- 
den. The way seemed long, and for a moment he fal- 
tered. It must have been instinct which guided his 
steps until he could see the faint glimmer of a light. 
Then, sure he should reach home, he took a flask from 
his pocket and drank deeply. Stumbling over stones 
and earth, which the rain had loosened, he stood just by 
the window through which he had seen a light. 

Wonder that he should h-ave seen, so faint was it ; 
only the flickering ray of a tallow candle. Not always 
was there even this; but Mary, the oldest daughter, was 


3i6 


Drinking Jack. 

at home, a;Qd George had been expected. A better sup 
per than usual was in process, of preparation, Mary hav 
ing brought the materials. 

^‘Good-evening, father!” she said, as he opened the 
door. 

“I don’t see anything good about the evening, ” he 
answered surlily, throwing his cap upon the floor. I’m 
wet to my skin. Start round, and bring me some dry 
clothes. Stop that brat’s noise, or I’ll stop it myself,” 
he added, as the baby commenced crying. 

Mrs. Neal looked up hopelessly. The child was sick, 
and its wailing could not be hushed. Mary endeavored 
to engage her father’s attention, in providing for his 
own comfort. The other children crept noiselessly up 
the stairs leading to an unfinished chamber, where they 
huddled together in one corner. 

“ Oh ! I’ve stepped in the water,” whispered one. “ I 
feel it coming down on my neck, too.” 

“ Yes, I guess you can,” answered Harry. ‘‘This 
old roof leaks like a sieve. When I’m a man, I won’t 
live in any such old shell as this. I won’t drink rum, 
either. I promised Uncle George I wouldn’t.” 

“ Hush !” said Nancy. “ Don’t talk. I wish George 
would come. I’m afraid father’s going to have one of 
his spells ; and we shall all die if he drives us out in the 
storm to-night.” 

“ No, we sha’n’t either,” replied Harry, stoutly. “We 
shall go right down to Uncle George’s house. He said 
we must, the very next time father shuts us out.” 

“ Could you find the way in the dark 1 ” asked little 
Nellie. 

“ Of course I could, if it was dark as pitch.” 


Drinking Jack, 3 1 7 

“ Hush!'' whispered Nancy, and this time the injunc 
tion was heeded. 

There was a crash below, and the light no longer 
shone through the cracks in the floor. 

Father, father ! " cried Mary, ‘‘you have killed the 
baby." 

Such a wild, maniacal laugh as answered her. It was 
quite certain that Drinking Jack would ‘‘have a spell." 

Lying prone upon the floor, regardless of the water 
above and below him, Harry could see, when the can- 
dle was relighted, air which transpired in the kitchen. 
His father was striding about, with arms swinging, 
threatening at every step to demolish some article of 
furniture. His mother had made her escape with the 
baby. 

“Stand out of my way! Stand out of my way!" 
cried the infuriated man, with an oath, to Mary, who 
kept guard by the door, through which her mother had 
passed, in the darkness. 

“No, father,” she answered firmly. “This room is 
the place for you." 

But I want that brat, and Til have it. It's made 
noise enough for one night, and I’ll see if I can’t be 
master in my own house. There ! there ! See there I 
The old serpent is after me! See his eyes! He is 
getting ready for a spring ! " And then a howl of min- 
gled rage and terror rang out upon the storm. 

Mary understood this. She knew what would follow, 
and trembled in view of the possible fate of all in the 
house. There was no help near. George would not 
come home such a night. 

Meanwhile, Harry thought as rapidly as his sister. 


3 1 8 Drinking J ack. 

He knew that help was needed. Only a little before, 
he had boasted that he could find the way to his uncle’s, 
and he resolved to make the attempt. Rising from the 
floor, he whispered his intentions to Nancy, the sister 
older than himself, who, although she expressed a fear 
that he would be lost, offered no objections. 

No danger of my getting lost,” he replied Help 
me find that old coat George left the last time he was at 
home, and that quilted hood Mary used to wear. I 
must bundle up.” 

Coat and hood were soon found. 

“ Now, help me move this board, and shut it again as 
soon as I am through.” 

The board in question, a rough sliding-door, being 
seldom used, moved slowly ; but at length, after repeated 
trials, Harry managed to crowd through, the opening, 
and let himself down the ladder which led to the shed. 

The prospect was gloomy. No lull in the storm 
which might have appalled a stouter heart than that of 
the child who went forth to brave its fury. Uncle 
George lived in the house in front of which his father 
had lingered, and this house he must reach. It was 
well that he did not stop to consider the difficulties of 
the way, else there might have been a different record 
of that night. 

At first he walked cautiously; then, gaining confi- 
dence, quickened his steps. Soon he saw the lights in 
the village. No danger after that, and he pressed for- 
ward rapidly. Almost there ! He ran ; he shouted, and 
rushing into his uncle’s house, he fell, crying : 

‘‘ Go quick. Uncle George, or father will kill them 
all! Do go, quick ! ’* 


Drinking Jack. 319 

Deacon Jaquith and George Neal sprang from theil 
chairs, at the same moment exclaiming : 

“ Have you come from home, Harry ? 

“Yes,’’ gasped the boy. “Do go quick! Father’s 
awful, and Mary’s all alone with him.” 

“ Where’s mother 1 ” asked George. 

“ In the bedroom. But don’t stop to talk. Go and see.’^ 

“ Bring two lanterns, wife,” said the deacon. “ Sam, 
we shall need you,” he added, speaking to a young man 
in the kitchen. “ Get ready as quick as possible. George, 
you may le^d the way.” 

“Yes, sir. I ought not to have stopped here. I felt 
as though something was wrong at home.” And snatch- 
ing up a lighted lantern, he was gone. 

Sam was soon ready, and the deacon followed. 

“They are all gone now,” said Aunt Mary to Harry. 
‘‘ I must look after you ; you are very wet.” 

“Yes, I guess I am, though I didn’t think anything 
about it ; I was so afraid father would kill mother and the 
baby. They don’t know I came, but they’ll be glad to 
see uncle and George. I don’t know but I ought to go 
back.” 

“ Not to-night, my boy. This is the place for you.” 

George was the first to reach the hut, and confronted 
his father so suddenly that for a moment the madman 
was quiet. Deceived by this, and turning to look for 
the other members of the family, there would^ have 
been a tragedy, had not Deacon Jaquith sprang for- 
ward to avert it. 

“No more of that. Jack,” he said, in a calm, stern 
voice. ^‘None of your tantrums. Come here, Sam^ 
and help me hold this fellow.” 


320 


Drinking Jack. 

‘‘What are you here for ? ” roared John Neal, strug- 
gling to free himself from the vise-like grasp which 
pinioned his arms. 

‘‘ I am here to take care of you,'* was the reply. 

Such oaths as this provoked, no pen should ever 
write. Curses, imprecations, and blasphemous taunts. 

Stop, or you shall be gagged. No more such talk 
as that,” commanded the deacon. 

Another effort for freedom, and this would have been 
successful but for George. 

If there is a strong rope on the premises, Mary, 
bring it to me. I don’t care to waste so much strength 
when a rope will answer the same purpose.” 

Drinking Jack howled with rage, and, escaping from 
restraint, sprang to the bedroom door, shouting, “ I’ll kill 
that brat, and its mother, too ! ” But a well-aimed blow, 
given with a will, prostrated him. 

“I guess father’s dead now,” whispered Nellie, who 
kept strict watch in the loft above. 

She was mistaken, however. There was still need of 
the rope; and having been securely bound, John Neal 
was moved, not over-tenderly, into a corner, where he 
would be out of the way. 

Mother, mother ! ” then cried Mary, opening the 
door of the room where the poor woman had taken 
refuge. Come out and get warm. Father can’t hurt 
you n^w ! ” 

There was no response, and Mary went in. 

“Why, mother, are you asleep.^ Bring a light, 
George.” 

The mother had fainted ; and the infant, which she 
clasped in her arms, was unconscious. Attention was 


321 


Drinking Jack, 

given them, Sam alone keeping guard over Jack. 
Nancy and Nellie were called. Such restoratives as 
the house afforded were applied, and Mrs. Neal was 
soon able to speak ; but there was no awakening for her 
child in this world. 

“The baby is dead,” said Deacon Jaquith to his 
brother-in-law, a little past midnight. 

“ Dead ! ” repeated the brutal father. 

“Yes; so you are saved the trouble of killing it.” 

I will not linger over the remaining horrors of that 
night. When the sun rose next morning, five persons 
wended their way over the rocks. Mrs. Neal was sup- 
ported by her brother ; Mary carried the body of her 
dead sister, while Nancy and Nellie followed. 

A sad procession ; but the sooner a comfortable shel- 
ter was found, the better ; and it was impossible for any 
carriage to leave the hut. 

“We are all here, wife; five living and one dead,^' 
said the deacon, as he ushered the party into a well- 
warmed room. “ Take little Bessie and lay her away. 
It is a mercy that her sufferings are over.” And no 
one of the family saw the child again until, wearing a 
white robe, she looked meet to dwell with the angels. 

“ First, we need breakfast ; and then Ellen must lie 
down. She wasn’t able to walk this morning; but she 
couldn’t stay where she was.” 

“ I don’t wish for any breakfast. I can’t eat.” 

“Well, child, lie right down here on the lounge,” an- 
swered Mrs. Jaquith, kindly. ‘‘Perhaps you can drink 
a cup of tea after you get rested a little. Anyway, you 
shall do just as you please.” 

Mrs. Neal was Deacon Jaquith’s youngest sister ; and 


322 


Drinking Jack, 

why she married as she did, was a mystery no one could 
solve; although, as a young man, John was no worse 
than many others in the community. 

This marriage had been a bitter trial to the deacon, 
who was a man of strict integrity and honor. It morti 
fied him to acknowledge “ Drinking Jack” as his brother- 
in-law, while it grieved him to see his sister and her 
children suffer as only a drunkard’s family can suffer. 

Ellen Jaquith did not expect this when she pledged 
her faith. Like many another woman, trusting idle 
words, she believed that her love would prove a safe- 
guard in the hour of temptation. Bitterly had she 
been disappointed ; and yet she hoped on, while chil- 
dren were born to share her wretchedness. 

“You ought to leave your husband. It is your duty 
to leave him,” her brother had often said. “ You have 
no right to become the mother of children who must 
call such a man father. It is a sin for which you must 
answer at the bar of God. I have heard George wish, 
over and over again, that he had never been born ; and 
I don’t wonder.” 

Her husband had gone from bad to worse, until there 
seemed no lower depths for him to reach. Completely 
brutalized, the idea of appealing to his conscience or 
sense of responsibility seemed absurd. 

Mrs. Neal, yielding to the persuasions of her sister 
and children, consented to lie down in a room prepared 
for her; but it was impossible for her sleep. She re- 
viewed the events of the past night. She had assured 
her friends that she would never be separated from her 
husband unless he chose to leave her; now she was in- 
clined to reconsider this decision. 


CHAPTER II. 


After spending most of the day alone, toward even- 
ing she joined the family, and then learned that her bro- 
ther had, without consulting her, made arrangements 
for the future. He had been to her old home and held 
some conversation with George, who still watched by 
his father ; had talked with Mary, and was now ready to 
carry out his plans. 

“ Your consent is all that is needed,” said the kind- 
hearted man, after telling her what he proposed. “ Will 
you stay with us ? ” 

“ Yes, if I shall not be a burden, until I can do some- 
thing to support myself. I don’t feel as though I could 
ever live with John again.” 

‘‘ O mother ! I am so glad,” exclaimed Mary, while 
the younger children clapped their hands for joy. 

“And I am thankful,” added Deacon Jaquith. Don’t 
talk of supporting yourself. You will stay here until 
your children provide another home for you. Harry is 
going to be my boy. That was settled some time ago, 
and I rather think Nellie and her aunt have come to 
some understanding about living together. As for 
Nancy, Mrs. Boardman would like her company ; but 
there is a home for her here. One trouble is off from 
my mind. You won’t change, Ellen, and go back?” he 
added soon after. 

(323) 


3^4 


Drinking "Jack, 

“ Not unless my husband reforms.” 

Then the matter is settled. There is no prospect oi 
that. The day of miracles is past. Do you authorize 
me to tell him your decision ? ” 

Yes, you may tell him,” answered the wife with 
quivering lips ; “I can’t live any longer as I have done.” 
And then they talked of Bessie’s funeral, which was to 
take place the following day ; of the scanty furniture 
remaining in the old house on the cliff, and of the chil- 
dren’s prospects. 

“ George can make his own way and help the rest,” 
said his qncle. ‘‘ He is a good boy, true as steel, and 
no more like his father than white is like black.” 

Here a gesture from Mrs. Jaquith warned her husband 
that he should not enlarge upon this contrast, and he 
hastened to speak of other matters. In the evening 
George and his companion came down, saying that they 
had been ordered to leave, and, feeling quite willing to 
do so, thought best to obey. 

“ How is father .? ” asked Mary of her brother pri- 
vately. 

‘‘Well enough when we came away. Raving about 
because mother was gone, and threatening all manner of 
vengeance ; but he’ll get tired of doing that alone. He 
has probably found out by this time that there isn’t any 
rum in the house, and he will have to keep sober one 
night.” 

“ O dear ! if he would only keep sober all of the time,” 
responded Mary. 

‘‘Yes, if he only would; but I never expect that. 
And now you are all out of his way, I don’t mean to 
care. He has been the curse of my life.” 


Drinking Jack. 325 

“ Don’t say that, George,” pleaded his sister. 1 
know it’s true, but it hurts me to hear it. He is our 
father, after all.” 

George Neal turned away with an expression of dis- 
gust upon his good, strong face.. How often, when 
younger, had he heard the taunt, Drinking Jack s 
boy ! ” and how angry he had been. Then, as he grew 
older and realized all which this implied, it seemed 
burned into his forehead as a brand of shame. What 
wonder that he said his father had been the curse of his 
life? 

After much deliberation, it was decided that Deacon 
Jaquith should visit his brother-in-law early the next 
morning, inform the wretched man of the time of Bes- 
sie’s funeral, and ask him to be present. This sad occa- 
sion past, there would then be a fitting time to tell him 
the plans of his family. He might claim his children; 
but he had so publicly outraged every paternal obliga- 
tion that the law would at once decide against him. 
Moreover, Deacon Jaquith was a man of character and 
influence, reasonably sure to succeed in what he at- 
tempted. 

When morning came, George would not allow his 
uncle to go to the old house alone ; and Sam, thinking 
that under the circumstances a party of three would be 
none too large, joined them. Mary asked permission to 
go, but was refused. 

John Neal was wide awake that morning ; sober, too, 
so far as liquor was concerned. Somewhat troubled 
and very much astonished at his wife’s absence, he yet 
never dreamed but she would return ; and as for the 
baby, he was half inclined to believe that the story ol 


326 Drinking Jack, 

its death was false. He had searched the house to see 
what it contained which could be disposed of for money, 
and had just put some coal in the rusty old stove, when 
he heard voices outside. 

‘‘Good-morning, John/' said the deacon; but this 
greeting elicited no response. “ How do you find your- 
self this morning ? " 

“ Well enough ; but what is that to you ? " was the 
gruff reply. 

“ Perhaps nothing ; perhaps a good deal. I came to 
tell you that Bessie will be buried to-day. The funeral 
will be at twelve o'clock, and I thought you might like 
to be present." 

“ Where is the funeral going to be } " 

“ At my house." 

“ Where is Ellen ? " 

“ At my house." 

“ And the children ? " ^ 

“With their mother." 

“Well, what does all this mean, anyway 1 " now cried 
“ Drinking Jack " with an oath. 

“It means that I have given a shelter to your wife 
and children. There is no mystery about it." 

“ Aint there, though What right has my wife to go 
off in this way I am able to take care of my own fam- 
ily, and don't want any of your interference." 

“ Perhaps not ; but I've no time to talk of that now. 
Will you come to Bessie’s funeral } " 

“ I don’t believe there’s going to be any funeral. You 
want to scare me ; but I’m too old for that game. Tell 
my wife and children to come home if they know what’s 
good for themselves." 


Drinking Jack. 327 

‘‘And you won’t come to Bessie’s funeral?” 

‘ I didn’t say anything about that What are you 
here for? Why don’t you go about your business? 
George, what have you got in that basket? ” 

“ Some clothes.” 

“ Well, just put them back where they came from.” 

“ Mother wants them,” was the quick. reply. And as 
his uncle stood between him and his father, the young 
man proceeded to fill the basket, while Sam was clear- 
ing an old chest of drawers which stood in the bedroom. 

Directly Harry’s face was seen through the window. 
He was afraid some of his treasures would be left, and 
had come to look after them. “ I don’t want father to 
see me,” he said to Sam. Open the window, and let 
me in. I know where Nellie’s new shoes are, and she 
wants them. They’re hid.” 

Sure enough, they were hid where no one would have 
thought of looking for them ; and through Harry’s agency 
several other things were brought to light. 

“O dear! I wish we could take every single thing,” 
he whispered. “ Make up a good big bundle for me, 
Sam. I’m glad you thought to bring some twine.” 

“Guess ’twas a good idea. I always like to have 
stringing enough. Here’s a bundle for you. Put a 
stick through the knot and carry it over your shoulder ” , 
saying which, Sam dropped a good-sized bundle through 
the open window. “ Now be off,” he added ; “ they’re 
beginning to move round in the other room, and if your 
father should see us, there’d be a row. Keep out of 
sight of the old man.” 

Harry needed no second bidding. The bundle he 
carried was heavy, but he did not mind it. 


328 


Drinking Jack. 

Short and effective had been this visit to John Neal 
and not until he was left alone did he realize what had 
transpired. 

Through all he had been defiant, at the very last send- 
ing an insolent message to his wife, and asserting his 
ability to manage his own affairs. 

Bessie’s funeral will be at twelve.” These were the 
deacon’s parting words. 

“ It can’t be true ; it can’t be true,” he repeated to 
himself, over and over again. They’re trying to fool 
me.” And he laughed in derision. 

He looked into the bedroom, opened the door of the 
only closet in the house, and was convinced that some- 
thing unusual was about to happen. Bessie might be 
dead. 

He calculated the time by the sun, and wondered if 
it would be best to go to the deacon’s. No ; he wouldn’t 
please the old man so much. 

He added a few pieces of coal to the fire, brushed his 
boots with an old broom, and thought what a ragged, 
dirty fellow he was. No money, no credit. Yet he 
had always succeeded in getting liquor, and that was 
just what he needed. He would have it, too. 

With this resolve he started for the village. Passing 
Deacon Jaquith’s, he met one of his boon companions, 
who said carelessly, “ So you’ve lost your baby, Jack.” 

It was true, after all. He stopped, and Mrs. Jaquith 
seeing him, went out. “Come in, John,” she said; 
“ come in and have some breakfast.” 

I aint hungry,” he replied. 

“ But some hot coffee will do you good ; and perhaps 
you would like to look at Bessie before anybody comes.” 


Drinking Jack, 


329 


Scarce knowing what he did, he entered the kitchen 
and sat down. He heard the voices of his children, and 
knew that his wife was in the adjoining room ; and yet 
they seemed as far removed from him as though they 
had been miles distant. 

Mary came, looking at him pityingly, as one would 
look at a suffering stranger. She did not speak, and at 
length he broke the silence. 

‘‘ Is Bessie really dead 1 
Yes,” she answered. Didn^t they tell you 
I — I — thought,” he stammered. 

“Thought what, father? You didn’t suppose any- 
body would tell you a lie about it, did you ? ” 

“ I didn’t know, Mary. Everything seems strange. 
I don’t understand about your mother. Why didn’t 
she stay at home ? ” he asked, with something of the old 
fierceness. 

Mary went back to her mother, leaving him to par- 
take of the coffee and food placed before him, and to 
which he did ample justice, although he had said he 
was not hungry. 

After professing himself satisfied, Mrs. Jaquith led the 
way to the room where Bessie lay in her coffin. Here 
not even a sigh gave evidence of emotion. If the father’s 
heart was touched, he gave no sign. 

“ Of course you will stay to the funeral ? ” said his 
companion. 

“ Don’t know about that,” was the reply. “ I aint 
dressed up.” 

It was impossible to make John Neal look other than 
he was, a poor, miserable wretch ; but all which could 
be done, under the circumstances, to improve his ap 


330 


Drinking Jack. 

pearance was done. Mary brushed his old clothes, her 
aunt provided some clean undergarments, and he was 
comparatively well dressed when he took a seat by the 
side of his wife, when the clergyman was seen coming 
toward the house. 

At the close of the brief services, as the mourners 
prepared to follow the bier, which was borne by four 
young men, he said gruffly, “ Come along, Ellen ; and 
without looking toward her, walked on. When several 
rods from the house, he observed that she was not with 
him, and turning to Mary, asked an explanation of her 
absence. 

“ She didn’t wish to come,” was the reply. 

They had not far to go to reach the tomb in which 
the little coffin was placed. Brothers and sisters shed 
a few tears ; but the father, thinking more of the living 
than the dead, looked sullen and defiant. 

He returned to Deacon Jaquith’s for the express pur- 
pose of ordering his family home, and took a wicked 
delight in calculating the labor of returning what had 
been brought from the old house. He would not lift a 
finger toward it, but he would see that it was done. 

A well-spread table, to which all were invited, was 
awaiting the return of the mourners ; but John Neal re- 
fused to sit down. The clergyman was present, and 
this was reason enough why he should go. 

‘‘ Tell my wife I’m waiting for her,” he said to a woman 
who was assisting in the work. “ It’s time to go home.” 

“ Better not talk of that now,” said the deacon, who 
had overheard this remark. “ Let us have something 
to eat first.” And the obstinate man, lured somewhat 
by the savory food, yielded. 


331 


Drinking Jack. 

Dinner over,, the host, looking gravely at bis brother- 
in-law, said slowly, “John Neal, I am authorized by my 
sister to say that she will never live with you again until 
you give up the use of liquor and become a sober man. 
Neither will you have any control over your children. 
From this time I assume the care of them.’’ 

Not a word replied the man thus addressed, although 
his lips moved and great drops of perspiration stood on 
his forehead. Some feeling more human than that of 
rage may have swept over him ; but this he controlled, 
as was proved by the abuse and threats which he uttered 
so soon as he was able to speak. He called for his wife, 
declaring that dead or alive she belonged to him ; that 
no power should keep her from him, and that he would 
not stir from the house without her. 

Fortunately, the poor woman thus claimed as belong- 
ing to a brute was not present ; but the children, accus 
tomed as they were to their father’s savage outbreaks, 
grew pale with terror. Once George rose and took a 
step toward him, when Mr. Adams, the clergyman, in- 
terposed. 

At last the enraged man was peremptorily ordered to 
leave the house, when he commanded his children to 
come with him. 

“ No ; they are not going,” said the deacon, decid- 
edly. 

“ But I will have them. The law gives a man his 
children.^’ 

“ The law gives a man punishment for his sins; and 
you have done enough to send you to State’s prison. 
The sooner you leave the house the better.” 

A threatening gesture, a profane assurance that a day 


332 


Drinking Jack, 

of reckoning would come, and “ Drinking Jack ” went 
out alone, while his children hastened to the room 
where their mother waited to hear the result of this 
interview. 

‘‘ Father has gone,” said Mary. 

Tell me what he said.” 

‘‘ Don’t ask,” exclaimed George before his sister could 
reply. It is all over, and you are safe. I can work 
with good courage now. Uncle George will see that 
father don’t get my wages, and sometime we’ll have a 
home together. Keep up good spirits and everything 
will come out all right. Mary and I had better go back 
to work to-morrow morning, and Nancy can go to Mrs. 
Boardman’s, if you think best.” 

It will be best,” was the reply. I don’t want to 
burden your uncle too much.” 

Straight to the village went John Neal, and when 
there, to a cellar where liquor was sold to all, however 
wretched, who could give an equivalent for the deadly 
draught. 

How are you, Jack 1 Didn’t expect to see you to- 
day,” said the proprietor. “ Thought you had other 
business on hand. Glad you’ve come, though. A little 
accident happened last night, and I must have a new- 
counter. You’re just the man to make it. Want the 
job 1 ” 

Yes ; but I want something to drink before I think 
of work. You can trust me ; and if you’ll find me a 
place to sleep, I’ll begin in the morning.” 

Before noon the next day, it was known that his fam- 
ily had abandoned him ; yet none dared mention the 


333 


Drinking Jack, 

subject to him as, with clouded face and scowling brow, 
he worked at the task before him. Some said he would 
do worse than ever, but this was hardly possible. The 
only difference between the past and present lay in the 
fact that he could no longer expend his fury upon those 
whom he was bound to cherish and protect. 


CHAPTER III. 


If his wife suffe ed mentally — and no woman in hef 
condition but must suffer — she was, at least, spared the 
additional pain of cold, hunger, and fear. Her two 
youngest children remained with her, and were so 
happy in their new home that she caught something of 
their cheerfulness, even while she missed little Bessie, 
whose life had gone out in the wild storm. 

Occasionally Harry and Nellie saw their father; and 
twice he called to them to come home ; but he made no 
effort to reclaim them. He understood that a prosecu- 
tion only waited some movement on his part; and his 
brother-in-law had assured him that, this prosecution 
once commenced, no mercy need be expected. It 
was hoped he would leave the vicinity ; but as weeks 
went by there was no prospect that the hope would be 
realized. 

Harry, who had a fancy for climbing the rocks, kept 
himself well informed as to the condition of the old 
house, and from time to time brought away such articles 
as would be of use to his mother. 

As the spring advanced, there was a revival of religion 
in the village where Mary Neal was employed, and she 
was among the first to share its blessings. Then, anxious 
( 334 ) 


335 


Drinking Jack. 

,that others should know the joy of sins forgiven, it 
was but natural that her thoughts should turn to the 
members of her own family. 

While considering how she could influence them, sl%e 
listened to a sermon from the text, ‘‘ This kind goeth 
not out but by prayers and fasting.” Was it possible 
that the evil spirit, which had so long held control of 
her father, could be exorcised? She remembered his 
brutality, his blasphemous profanity ; and her faith 
faltered, even while, the promises sounded in her ears. 

She wrote to her mother, who, although having re- 
ceived a religious education, had never publicly ac- 
knowledged her obligation to lead a Christian life. Her 
brothers and sisters were each in turn addressed with 
affectionate earnestness; and, having done this, there 
remained only* her father. To write to him would be 
worse than useless; and she certainly could not go to 
him after what had transpired. So she reasoned. 

She obtained leave of absence from her work for a 
week, and went to her uncle’s, where she received sym- 
pathy from those who had long experience in Christ’s 
service. To Mrs. Jaquith she confided her anxiety for 
her father. Do you think it would do any good for 
me to talk with him ? ” she asked. 

‘‘ I am afraid not,” was the reply. I wish it 
could; but there don’t seem to be anything to appeal 
to. He is so far gone, I don’t suppose he would even 
hear you.” 

But, Aunt Mary, Christ died for him as well as for 
me.” 

I know it, dear ; but some people sin away their day 
cf grace, and are given up to work out their own de* 


33 ^ Drinking Jack. 

struction. There is no forgiveness for them. I’ll talk 
with your uncle about it.” 

Mary knew what would be his answer, and therefore 
w^s not disappointed when he said nothing short of a 
miracle could convert such a wretch as her father. If 
he could be persuaded to give up drinking, there might 
be some use in talking to him about religion,” added 
the deacon. 

‘‘ Religion must come first,” she answered. ‘‘ If he 
was a Christian, he would give up drinking. He would 
feel it to be his duty, and God would give him strength 
to do it.” 

“Yes, child; perhaps you are right.” 

Nothing more was said; but when Mary saw her 
father passing, she went out to speak to him. 

“ What do you want } ” he asked, less roughly than 
she had expected. 

“ I want you to be a Christian.” 

“ Christian ! ” he repeated, with a sneer, and an oath 
half escaped his lips. 

“ Don’t swear, father, don’t swear,” said his daughter, 
laying her hand lightly on his arm. ‘‘If you do, I 
sha’n’t have any faith to pray for you.” 

“What ails you, Mary? What do you mean by this 
kind of talk ? ” 

“ Mean what I say, father. I hope I have found re- 
ligion, and I want you to find it too.” 

“ Religion ! I’ll believe in your religion when I see 
something of it.” And, without another word, he 
strode on. 

Strange as it may seem, Mary Neal was encouraged 
Her father had listened to her, and she hastened to tell 


Drinking Jack. 337 

the good news. ‘‘Now, don^t you think he can be in- 
fluenced ? she asked. 

“ I don’t know, child,’' replied her aunt “ If you ask 
the Holy Spirit’s aid ” » 

‘‘ O, Aunt Mary ! I always pray for that I don’t 
depend upon myself. I should like to go up to the 
old house, and I believe I will,” added the young girl 
directly. 

“No, child, don’t do that I know your uncle won’t 
allow it He won’t think it’s safe for you to go.” 

“But I’m not afraid. Father won’t hurt me.” 

The good woman shook her head ; and her husband 
coming in, the matter was referred to him. 

“ Go up on the cliff to-night ! ” he exclaimed. “ No, 
indeed, child. There’s no telling what might happen if 
your father should have a drunken fit” 

“But, uncle, I feel as though I must go ; and I know 
God will take care of me.” 

“ I aint sure of that I don’t wonder you are anxious 
about your father ; but it’s no use to think of doing him 
any good by talking to him.” 

Mary was not convinced. She pleaded earnestly for 
the permission she desired; and at length her uncle 
said : “ Ask your mother, and do as she thinks best ’ 

As might have been expected, the daughter carried 
her point. Mrs. Jaquith gave her a well-filled basket, 
the contents of which were to serve as a peace-offering. 

“ Mary is a good girl,” said the deacon to his wife, 
after she had gone. “ She thinks she can do someth: ig 
for her father; but when she has lived as long as I have, 
she won’t have much faith in making a Christian out of 
a rum-cask. I don’t suppose I could say just that to 


338 Drinking Jack. 

her ; for, somehow, it touched my heart to hear her tell 
how she had studied the promises, to see if there is any 
limit to God’s mercy.” 

Up, up the narrow foot-path went Mary Neal; and, 
in her impatience, the way seemed long. How desolate 
looked the hut ! The rocks which sheltered it from the 
winds seemed like prison walls. Through the window 
she saw her father ; and, covering her face, she prayed 
that she might be able to speak some word which would 
reach his heart. Then, without waiting for her fears to 
gather strength, she opened the door and passed in. 

Father ! ” He looked up in surprise ; but before he 
could speak, Mary added, I wanted to come and see 
you, and I brought some supper. Would you like to 
have me stay ? ” 

Stay if you want to. ’Taint a very nice place here,” 
he replied, with a mocking laugh. “There, aint much 
left but the old shell, and that might as well go with the 
rest.” 

He was sober, and Mary’s spirits rose at once. 

“We must have some fire,” she said. “We shall want 
tea with our supper.” 

Her father went into the shed, tore off a board, and 
lighted a fire. As he had said, there was but little left 
in the house ; yet his daughter managed to arrange a 
tempting meal, of which he was nothing loth to partake. 
He ate in silence, asking no questions. When supper 
was over, however, he asked abruptly, “ Mary, what 
made you come up here 1 ” 

“ Because I want you to be a Christian. I came to 
talk with you about it.” And, in her earnestness, she 
knelt beside him. 


339 


Drinking Jack. 

Who sent you ? 

God,” she answered reverently ; and from that 
moment all fear vanished. The Spirit must have given 
her utterance, as she warned, entreated, and prayed. 
Yes, prayed. Kneeling there, she poured out her soul 
in fervent supplication : O father ! you are such a 
sinner ! 

Tve heard that often enough,” he said, in reply to 
this remark made by Mary, after she had risen from her 
knees. 

‘‘ And don’t you believe it?” The clear, blue eyes 
of the young girl looked fearlessly into his own. Don’t 
you believe it, father? You have made yourself and 
your family miserable, and I don’t know of any good 
you have ever done.” 

Why didn’t he strike her down ? Once he would have 
done so. Now something restrained him — astonish- 
ment, perhaps ; for, except at the burial of his children, 
he had not heard a prayer for years, while he had never 
listened to such a one as fell from his daughter’s lips. 

Will you think of what I have said, and remember 
that I shall pray for you constantly ? ” she continued. 

‘‘ I don’t know,” he replied. Are you going now ? ” 

“Yes; it is almost dark, and I promised not to stay 
long. You’ll find enough for breakfast in the cup- 
board. Good-night, father.” 

He did not speak ; but he stood at the door watching 
her until she was quite out of sight. Then he looked 
in the cupboard to see what had been left. An empty 
flask stood by a loaf of bread. If the flask had been 
full, he could have spared the bread. For some reason, 
which he could not himself explain, he had not drank a 


340 Drinking Jack, 

drop of intoxicating liquor through the day. He might 
go to the village. He took up his hat from the floor, 
then threw it down again. 

It was night, but he was not sleepy. If he had some- 
thing to read he might while away an hour. As he took 
down the battered candlestick a tract fluttered to the 
floor. Much as he disliked tracts, he read every word 
of this. Twice he read it; and its appeals were so 
direct that he thought it must have been written ex- 
pressly for himself. The candle burned out in the 
socket, but he did not heed it. Light and darkness 
were the same to him, as conscience, so long silent, now 
thundered in his ears. Eagerly he hailed the morning, 
and hastened to the village, where he drank until he 
could' laugh at the fancies which had tormented him. 

Mary, not finding another opportunity to see him 
during the week, was forced to return to her work, feel- 
ing that she had failed of success in her efforts to 
influence him. Yet there remained the privilege of 
prayer ; and during the next two months hardly a work- 
ing hour passed in which she did not offer some petition 
for her father. 

Occasionally she heard of him, but never anything 
which gave her encouragement. He worked and drank, 
avoiding all mention of his family, and utterly ignoring 
their existence. Gloomy and taciturn, his employers 
spoke to him only when necessary. In dissipation he 
did not seek companionship as formerly ; but, going 
away by himself, he drank such quantities of liquor as 
would have killed an ordinary man. Frenzied by this 
indulgence, without being rendered unconscious, his 
wretchedness was only increased. 


341 


Drinking Jack. 

He realized now that he was a sinner. No need he 
should feel this more deeply. The great truth haunted 
him until he would have welcomed any change which 
promised relief. The tract he had read the night after 
Mary’s visit had been destroyed, but not forgotten. He 
yearned for sympathy ; but his proud heart would have 
broken rather than acknowledge it. 

One evening he went home, as he^still called the hut, 
with a firm determination never to see the light ot 
another morning. It seemed to him that nothing could 
be worse than to live on as he was ; yet when he stood 
face to face with death, his false courage gave way, and 
for the first time in many years he wept. 

The next day Mary Neal received a letter, consisting 
of a few irregular lines, which she read with great dif- 
ficulty. 

Her father wished to see her. Oh ! how her heart 
leaped with joy. He would wait for her at home, and 
she should find enough to eat. “ Come quick ! ” She 
hastened to obey. Don’t tell anybody I sent for you.” 

She regarded this request, although after reaching her 
uncle’s it was very difficult to do so. 

‘‘You must not think of going near your father,” said 
Deacon Jaquith. “ People don’t think of speaking to him 
if they can help it ; and it isn’t safe for you to trust 
yourself alone with him.” 

“ But I must go and see him,” replied the young girl. 
“ I came over on purpose to see him. Oh, uncle ! you 
don’t know how much I have prayed for him ; and I do 
believe he will be a Christian.” 

“ I wish I could believe so, child. But I don’t see 
any hope for him.” 


342 


Drinking Jack, 

I see hope for him,” said Mary, with confidence. 
“ The blood of Christ cleanseth from all sin.” 

Deacon Jaquith stood rebuked; and after some con- 
sideration, acknowledged that he might be wrong. 
“ Go, if you think best, and may the blessing of God go 
with you.” 

Harry reported that he had seen his father carry a full 
basket home ; so Mary was able to excuse herself from 
accepting her aunt’s proffered- bounty. 

“ I may spend the night,” she said to her mother. 

*‘No, child, don’t do that. I shall be very anxious if 
you do.” 

But I may want to stay, and father may want to 
have me,” urged the daughter. “ I shall know when I 
get there; and perhaps I shall tell him that you are 
praying for him.” 

“Not unless he asks about me. It won’t be best; 
and I have so little faith, I’m afraid my prayers won’t 
do any good.” 

John Neal saw his daughter long before she reached 
the hut, and waited for her at the door. O, Mary, 
I’m glad you’ve come,” he exclaimed, extending his 
hands, while tears streamed down his cheeks. 

“Are you glad to see me.? ’’she asked, in a choked 
voice. 

“ Glad ! Yes, child. Come in and pray for me.” 

Astonishment sealed her lips, as she looked at hei 
father’s anxious, care-worn face. 

“ I am such a sinner ! ” he groaned. 

“You are such a sinner,” repeated Mary, almost in- 
voluntarily. 

“ I know it. Is there any mercy for me ? ” 


Drinking Jack, 343 

“Mercy, father! Why, Christ died for you. Didn’t 
you know that ? ” 

“ I know you said so,” answered the wretched man. 

‘ But I’m worse than anybody else ever was. Think how 
I’ve treated your mother and abused the children. 
There can’t be mercy for such a sinner.” 

“Yes, father, there is,” Mary hastened to reply. “Sit 
down and let me read some of Christ’s promises.” 

“ No, no ! don’t read to me. Pray for me. There’s 
nobody else to pray for me.” 

“ Mother prays for you.” 

“ Is that true 1 Does your mother pray for me ” 

“Yes, father; she has prayed for you ever since she 
became a Christian — almost two months now. Don’t 
you ever pray for yourself.^ ” 

‘‘ How can I ” 

‘‘ Ask God to forgive your sins, for Christ’s sake.” 

“ I can’t, I can’t ! I shouldn’t dare to pray.” 

‘‘ But you have dared to swear.” 

‘‘ I know it, and God knows it. Oh I pray for me 1 ” 

“If you will kneel down with me, I will then pray,” 
said Mary. 

There was no hesitation on his part; and the prayer 
which followed, broken with sobs and interrupted with 
groans, was a continued, repeated cry for mercy. At 
length Mary rose from her knees, while her father only 
bowed still lower his head. 

“ O God I forgive my sins.” One single petition, and 
he who uttered it, trembling at his own boldness, sprang 
to his feet and rushed from the hut. 

His daughter, while carefully observing his move- 
ments, prepared supper, for which she found abundant 


344 


Drinking Jack, 

provision. Her father had redeemed his promise that 
there should be enough to eat, and by the time she had 
arranged it upon the table he came in. 

I found so many good things in the cupboard that 
I hardly knew which to take,” said Mary, cheerfully. 
“You must have expected that we should be very 
hungry.” 

“ I expected you would want something to eat,” was 
the reply. “ Did you find the tea? ” 

“Yes, and there’s some of it ready to drink. Come, 
let us sit down to the table.” 

“ I can’t eat, child. It don’t seem to me as though I 
can ever eat again, unless I get rid of this burden of 
sin ; and I’m afraid that never ’ll be.” 

“ Yes, it will be, father. I know it will.” And a happy 
light shone in the eyes of the speaker. “ I have asked 
God to forgive your sins, and He certainly will.” 

‘‘ Do you believe that ? ” 

“Why, father, I know it.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

For answer, Mary Neal took from her pocket a Testa- 
ment, in which numerous passages had been marked, 
and read, one after another, the gracious sayings and 
precious promises to repentant sinners. Her father list- 
ened eagerly, a ray of hope sometimes flitting across his 
face, only to be succeeded by the despairing expression 
worn before. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“Now, sit down to the table, said Mary, after clos- 
ing her Testament. “ It is almost night/^ 

“ Are you going to leave me ? ” 

“ Not if you want me to stay. I told mother I should 
stay, if you wanted me to.’’ 

“ And what did she say ” 

“Truth is always best,” thought the young girl; and 
she reported the conversation between her mother and 
herself. 

No entreaty could induce her father to eat, although 
he drank several cups of tea, while urging her to taste of 
everything he had provided. Sleeping was as impossi 
ble for him as eating. Mary, too anxious to close her 
eyes, sometimes reclining upon the one poor bed, some- 
times talking, and sometimes praying, was • glad when 
the night had passed. 

In the evening Harry came up, accompanied by Sam , 
and after looking through a window long enough to be 
sure of what was going on within, hastened home to tell 
the strange story that father and Mary were kneeling 
down together. ^ 

“ I heard father cry, too,” added Harry. I know he 
won’t hurt Mary now ; and perhaps he is going to be 
good.” 


346 


Drinking yack. 

“Hadn’t you better go up and see what it means?’’ 
said Mrs. Jaquith to her husband. 

“No; it wouldn’t be best,” was the reply. “Mary 
has begun the work, and she don’t need any of my 
help.” 

The next morning the sun had hardly risen when the 
deacon, hearing a loud rap, opened the kitchen door, 
and met his brother-in-law, who said, in broken accents : 

“ I’ve come to ask your forgiveness. Will you forgive 
me .? ” 

‘‘Of course I will,” answered the astonished man. 
“Come in and sit down. I want to talk with you. 
Where is Mary .? ” 

‘ She’s up home ; and I suppose you want to know 
what sent me here, when the last time I was here before 
I swore I’d never darken your doors again as long as I 
lived.” 

“I should like to know,” was the reply. 

“ I came because I couldn’t help it,” said John Neal. 
“I’ve been a terrible sinner, and I’m trying to get for- 
giveness.” 

“You’ve sinned against God, most of all.” 

“I know it; and I’m afraid He’ll never forgive me.” 

Deacon Jaquith was a Christian; and now that his 
visitor expressed sorrow for sin, he at once endeavored 
to comfort him with assurances of pardon. 

“ But think what I have been,” was urged in response. 

“ Do you suppose anybody thought Drinking Jack had a 
soul t I’ve been the worst drunkard on the coast, and 
gloried in it. Oh ! pray for me ! ” 

The whole family were aroused, but no one entered 
the kitchen. 


347 


Drinking Jack. 

After a prayer, John Neal said : 

If you are willing, 1 should like to see Ellen long 
enough to ask her forgiveness.” 

Mrs. Neal was called. Her husband asked her one 
question, which she answered ; and then he went out 
alone. 

All that day nothing was talked of but the visit of the 
morning. It was hoped Mary would come down ; but 
she remained at her post. Harry went up to ask how 
long she was going to stay. 

‘‘As long as father wants me,” was the reply. “ Tell 
mother not to worry about me. I have enough to eat, 
and I’m trying to do some good.” 

Another night passed, and still John Neal felt the 
horrors of remorse. It seemed to him that every wrong 
act of his life was remembered. Oh ! it was so terrible, 
this dark record, no word of which could he erase ! 

At length he read the Bible, prayed, and tried to look 
away from his sins, until there came into his heart a 
blissful assurance that Christ died for him. 

“ I do believe it,” he cried, joyfully. “ Christ died for 
me. Bless you, Mary, for trying to save me ; and I 
bless God that He sent His Son to die for me, bad as 
I am.” 

“You won’t drink any more rum now ” said Mary, 
her thoughts reverting to the terrible habit which had 
well-nigh ruined him, soul and body. 

“ No, child, I won’t. I’ll try to do what is right,” he 
replied. 

Mary Neal had then spent three nights in the old 
house, and her father thought it best that she should re^ 
turn to her uncle’s. 


348 


Drinking Jack. 

“ I shall sleep to-night, and you will be mote com 
fortable there,” he said, as he urged her to leave him 
“ To-morrow I must go to work early, and see what 1 
can do.” 

“ And may I tell mother tliat you are a Christian ? ” 

“ Tell her that I trust in Christ for mercy, and shall 
try to lead a different life. Pray for me th'at I may do 
right.” 

Harry and Nellie met their sister, eager to hear the 
news, asking, both in a breath : 

Is father going to be a good man ? ” 

“ I hope so,” was the reply. 

“ Oh ! won’t it be strange if he is ” said Harry. And 
this expressed the feelings of all to whom the possibility 
of such an event was suggested. 

“Time will tell,” remarked Deacon Jaquith, scarce 
daring to believe what he had 'seen and heard. 

John Neal’s employer, glad to see him back the next 
morning, said : 

“ Ready to work again. Jack ? ” 

“Yes, sir; I am anxious to work. I want to earn 
some money.” 

“Well, Jack, I am ready to pay .you money; but I 
wish you’d spend it for something besides rum.” 

“ I mean to, Mr. Dean. I’m going to do better than 
I have.” 

Mr. Dean attached no importance to these assertions ; 
but at the end of the week, no one had' seen Jack drink. 
Indeed, it was settled, in a consultation of his old 
cronies, that he hadn’t tasted a drop of liquor since the 
Saturday before. Another week went by, and nevei 
had he accomplished so much work in the same time 


Drinking Jack. 349 

Deacon Jaquith called upon him, and they had a long 
conversation. 

“ Do you find it hard work to keep your resolution 
about drinking ?” asked the visitor. 

‘‘ Sometimes it is,” was the reply. 

I had given you up, brother John.” 

This was the first time Deacon Jaquith had evei 
called John Neal ‘‘ brother/' and tears started to the eyes 
of the man thus addressed. 

I know you had,” he answered, at length. You 
wanted to reform me, and tried to have me leave off 
drinking; but it was no use to talk that way to me. My 
heart needed changing, before my actions could be.” 

“ And you think your heart is changed 1 ” 

‘‘I know it is. I shouldn't want to read the Bible, 
and pray, if it wasn’t. I used to hate the Bible. I used 
to hate God ; and I don't know but I hated everybody. 
I am glad you took my family away from me; and I’ll 
pay you for taking care of them, if I live long enough 
to earn the money. I shall be paid next Saturday, and 
I’d give you every cent, but I must have some clothes.' 

“I don't want any of your money, brother John 
Keep it, and make good use of it ; but come and see u i 
when you can. We are expecting George to spend tb-» 
Sabbath with us.” 

Mary wrote me that he was coming.” 

Then Mary writes to you.? '' 

Yes ; and I’ve read her letters till they are all worn 
out.” 

Two or three drunkards of the town had invited Jack 
to drink with them during these weeks, but had been sc 
decidedly refused that they did not presume to urge him 


350 


Drinking Jack. 

Yet it was expected that he would soon give up his way 
of living, and the rum-seller looked nightly for the re- 
turn of his old customer. 

John Neal spent his Sabbaths on the cliff; where, 
alone, he read the Bible and thought of God’s mercy. 
Sometimes his sins would seem to hide the Saviour’s 
face ; but prayer soon removed the veil. If tempted oy 
the demon of drink, he prayed; if lonely, he prayed; 
and never did he pray in vain. 

The Sabbath George was expected, he sat from early 
morning where he could look down the path which led 
to the house, and at length was rewarded by the appear- 
ance of his son, who came forward with quick, bounding 
steps, as though impatient for the meeting. Then the 
hours passed quickly ; so much was to be said, and such 
happy experiences to be compared. Both hoped their 
sins were forgiven, and both were striving to lead new 
lives ; so there \^as a strong bond of sympathy between 
them. George had sought his father, half doubting the 
change of which he heard ; but when they parted, this 
doubt had been removed. 

I do believe father is a Christian,” he said to his 
uncle. I was sorry to leave him alone up there, but 
he said it was best. He talked a good deal about little 
Bessie, and cried because he hadn’t thought any more 
of her when she was alive.” 

“ What did father say } ” was the question asked by 
the children ; and although each one had received an 
answer, the half was not told. 

By this time the whole community had heard of the 
reform of John Neal, and were watching to see what 
would be the end. 


351 


Drinking Jack, 

Many thought it impossible that he should become a 
Christian, while all feared that he would turn back tc 
his old habits. 

This fear was expressed to him, when he answered 
mildly: I don’t wonder you think so, but I am sure 

God will give me strength to persevere. Oh ! if you 
could all see my heart, you would think very differently 
of me from what you do now. Nobody ever knew how 
bad I was, and nobody can ever know how much I suf- 
fered when I saw it all myself. It makes me shudder to 
think of it; but I believe God has forgiven my sins.” 

“You are sure of that } ” 

“ I am sure Christ died for me, and His blood has paid 
the ransom for my sins.” 

The man to whom this was said was not a Christian ; 
and this simple, earnest faith was a sermon more elo- 
quent than he had ever before heard. Whoever ad- 
dressed John Neal upon the subject of his reform re- 
ceived a frank response, while he intruded his personal 
experience upon no one. Working constantly, avoiding 
temptation, so far as might be, and yet meeting it fairly 
when challenged, time passed on. 

Summer, with its glories, flooded the earth, when it 
was known that Jack, as he was still called, had bought 
a piece of land of his brother-in-law not far from the vil- 
lage, and ground was already broken for a cellar. 

‘^You say there’s going to be a house here before 
winter,” said one, looking at the workmen who plied 
pick-axe and shovel. 

“ That’s what the owner of the land says, and he’s 
likely to know,” was the reply. “ He understands build- 
ing houses.” 


352 


Drinking Jack. 

“ I suppose he does; but I can’t quite believe yet that 
Drinking Jack’s going to be a sober man the rest of hin 
life.” 

‘‘ You never heard him pray, I guess.” 
never did,” answered the doubter. 

‘^Then you don’t know anything about it. He prayed 
me out of a drunken fit two days ago.” 

“How is that.? ” 

“Well, I’ll tell you. I got as drunk as ever Jack was, 
and fell down going home. I knew I fell down, but I 
didn’t know anything more till I heard Jack praying, 
and I don’t believe there was ever anything like it be- 
fore. I got up sober, and that’s a fact, whether you be- 
lieve it or not. Don’t talk about Drinking Jack; call 
him Praying Jack, and tell the truth.” 

The clergyman who had attended Bessie’s funeral 
sought frequent opportunities of conversing with her 
father, gaining at each interview more decisive evidence 
that his heart was indeed changed. 

His family were fully convinced of this, and as, dur- 
ing the autumn, the new house approached completion, 
they looked forward to a reunion beneath its roof. Mrs. 
Neal, with her three younger children, was ready to go 
when asked to do so, although uncle and aunt pleaded 
that one might remain. 

George and Mary contributed of their earnings to 
furnish the house, and while everything was plain, there 
was no lack of comforts. 

Much remained to be done ; but unfinished chambers 
and unpainted doors were of small consequence. It 
was home. They gathered around the table, acknowl- 
edging their dependence upon a higher Power, and at 


Drinking Jack, 353 

night the husband and father implored the blessing of 
Almighty God to rest down upon them. 

If Bessie had only lived !’’ said Nelly, softly. 

^‘Yes, if Bessie had only lived, I should have six 
children to love and work for,” responded her father. 

Do you love us } ” asked the youngest of his flock. 

‘‘No wonder you stsk me, child, but I do love you 
all.” And the strong man gathered her in his arms, 
while tears filled all eyes ; tears of joy, more expressive 
than smiles, and ofttimes sweeter in their influence. 

Deacon Jaquith, who could not deny himself the 
pleasure of looking in upon them the next morning, 
thought he never had seen happier faces. “Well, 
brother John, beginning life anew, are you.? he said. 

“ Trying to,’’ was the reply. 

“ You look well satisfied with your lot.” 

“ I am, and so would you be if you had longed for a 
home as much as I have the last six months. I’ve 
thought a good deal more of it than of anything else, 
except God’s mercy. And now I don’t want to leave it, 
even to go to work ; but I’ve promised, and I must keep 
my word.” 

It would be pleasant to linger over the days that fol- 
lowed ; but as this would make my story quite too long, 
I must forbear. 

Two years had John Neal held fast to his resolve to 
lead a sober life, never once violating the promise made 
to his daughter, when, after much deliberation and many 
prayers, he decided to make a public profession of his 
faith in Christ. 

His friends had often urged this upon him as a duty, 
and as often had he referred to his past life as a reason 


354 


Drinking Jack. 

why he ought not to assume the responsible position of a 
church member. “ I have been known so many years 
as ‘Drinking Jack' that people still call me so," he 
would say. “ Think what a dishonor this name might 
bring upon the church." 

Gradually, however, this name fell into disuse. His 
employers and his old associates began to address him 
as Mr. Neal. He gained the respect and confidence of 
the whole community, and was welcomed in all relig- 
ious meetings. His wife and three children waited to 
come forward with him, and at length he presented him- 
self before the church for examination. It was expected 
that he would be ignorant of doctrines which some con- 
sider essential, but, on the contrary, he had studied the 
Bible to such good purpose that his answers were clear 
and intelligent. 

The house was full the day when he and his family 
were to unite with the church, many being present who 
were never before seen on such an occasion. 

It did not seem enough to the reformed drunkard 
that he should simply assent to the articles of faith, re- 
ceive the seal of baptism, and enter into covenant with 
the followers of Christ. Publicly had he outraged the 
laws of God and humanity, and publicly was confession 
now made. This confession was read by the pastor, 
while John Neal stood with bowed head before the peo- 
ple, his tearful eyes attesting to its sincerity. 

No other part of the services produced such an impres- 
sion as this. Hard men unused to tears; dissipated 
men, who had sometimes sneered at Jack’s new religion ; 
infidels, who ignored all accountability to a higher than 


Drinking Jack. 355 

earthly power, were alike moved. It was a scene to be 
remembered. 

There was no alcoholic wine at this sacrament, as be- 
fore, but now a substitute was used, that the pledge so 
solemnly made and so publicly ratified might not first 
be broken at the Lord’s table. 

The congregation separated with few words, but in 
their homes the events of the day were earnestly dis- 
cussed. 

If Jack had a soul, I suppose IVe got one,” said a 
man who was scarcely better than John Neal had been. 
“ That paper the minister read was more than I could 
stanxL IVe tried to laugh at Jack when he’s preached to 
me ; but I sha’n’t laugh any more. He can preach as 
much as he wants to, and I’ll hear him.^’ 

Since that day John Neal has been a faithful preacher 
of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come; 
and still dwelling by the sea, now that three-score years 
have crowned him with the beauty of old men,” he re- 
joices in his labors to win souls to Christ. 


4 

f 




> 

i 


i 


\ 


> 

■J 

i 


H 


) 

i 


1 

:i 

i 

4 



TENTING BY THE ROADSIDE. 



TENTING BY THE ROADSIDE. 


CHAPTER L 

Nobody knew whence they came, but here they were, 
husband and wife, with four sturdy, sun-browned boys, 
camped in the highway on the border of an unfre 
quented road. The woman said they had traveled on 
foot more than a hundred miles, pushing before them a 
hand-cart containing quilts and blankets, a few cooking 
utensils, and a change of clothing. They fitted up a 
bedroom where it was sheltered on three sides by a 
dense growth of evergreen trees, and constructed a rude 
fire-place of stones by a babbling brook, and thus set 
up housekeeping- 

The arrangement might not be altogether comfort- 
able, but they hoped for fine weather, and in case of 
a storm they had a square of tarpaulin for a roof over 
their heads. Moreover, practice had taught them to 
make the most of all materials at their command, so 
that where others might perish from exposure they 
could bid defiance to the elements. Some people said 
they ought not to be permitted to remain there for a 
single week. The town had not appropriated four rods 
in width for all highways for the accommodation of 

( 359 ) 


360 Tenting by the Roadside. 

squatters. A hoard of paupers, hailing from nowhere, 
might come down upon them at any time, liable to 
make a heavy bill of expense. Besides, no decent family 
would live as did the new-comers. They might prove to 
be thieves, or even worse ; although the very next day 
after their arrival, the man, who gave his name as Jerome 
Danton, applied for work at the nearest farm-house, and 
upon trial proved himself a rapid and skillful worker. 
There was not an unoccupied house in town, and if there 
had been, he was too poor to pay rent. Being visited 
by one of the selectmen, he frankly stated his circum- 
stances, acknowledging that his unfortunate condition 
was the result of his own improvidence and wrong- 
doing. If allowed to build a shanty and cultivate a 
strip of land by the roadside, he pledged himself not to 
trespass upon the rights of others. Appearances were 
against him, but he only desired the privilege of earn- 
ing an honest living for himself and family, and so favor- 
ably did he impress his visitor, who owned the adjacent 
land, that his request was granted, with the condition 
that he should leave at any time when notified to 
do so. 

Not long after, some young men, intent upon mis- 
chief, walked in the direction of the camp one evening, 
and, hearing the sound of voices, paused to listen. The 
Bible was being read, each reading averse in alternation. 
Then there was a moment’s hush, and the father prayed 
long and earnestly, while those who came with thoughts 
of evil, went their way, wondering at what they had 
heard. 

Jerome Danton built a shanty of boards, for v/hich he 
had honestly paid. The boys worked early and late, 


36 i 


Tenting by the Roadside. 

clearing stones and brush from a piece of ground allot- 
ted for a garden. The stones helped to make a chim- 
ney, and the arrangements for comfort and convenience 
under the closest restrictions quite astonished vill 
observers. Those who employed Mr. Danton were also 
astonished at the long days of labor given in return for 
only ordinary wages. 

In the early summer Mrs. Danton went occasionally 
to the village store, making her purchases with great 
discretion ; and when the late term of school com- 
menced there were no more neatly-dressed children in 
attendance than hers — the oldest ten years of age, and 
the youngest four. Such books as they required were 
furnished at once, and whoever might be tardy or absent, 
these boys were punctually in their places. Their reci- 
tations, too, were usually perfect, so that they were 
thoroughly reliable scholars. 

As was natural, their teacher, Miss Bruce, was curious 
to see the home of which she had heard. “ Mother’ll 
be glad to see you,” said the oldest boy, when she ex- 
pressed her intention of calling upon his mother. She 
used to be a teacher, and we’ve told her how much we 
like you. Rob puts you next to mother in his world.” 

Does he.^ I’m so glad,” responded Miss Bruce, 
looking down into the little fellow’s upturned face. 
“ Next to mother is a place of honor. I have no mother. 
She died when I was no older than Rob, and my father 
died before I was grown up.” 

“ How did you get along } ” asked Harry, holding fast 
his younger brother’s hand. 

‘‘Just as well as I could ; but I missed them sadly,” 
was replied. 


362 Tenting by the Roadside. 

“I’m ever so sorry. WeVe got a dear, good mother 
that always did everything for us ; and now father’s 
just as good as she is. He reads the Bible and prays 
every night, and don’t never drink anything that makes 
him bad.” 

A warning gesture from Lester, the eldest of the boys, 
prevented a further revelation, but Miss Bruce could 
easily supply what remained unsaid, and she became 
more anxious to visit the house in the highway. 

She had not long to wait. The very next day she re- 
ceived an invitation to accompany the children home ; 
and there, standing just outside the door, Mrs. Danton 
received her with that cordial grace which makes one 
forget whether welcomed to palace or hovel. Supper 
was in readiness, the table spread with a snowy cloth, 
and the plainest of crockery, recently purchased, yet all 
so nicely arranged that it was really attractive. A tum- 
bler filled with wild flowers and a bowl of early straw- 
berries claimed special attention. No apologies were 
made by the hostess, as she gave of her best with willing 
hand, while her guest wondered at her intelligence. 

As teachers, they compared notes. As botanists, they 
talked of the flowers then blooming in the shady nooks 
or on sunny slopes. Miss Bruce found her own knowl- 
edge meager when compared with that of the woman to 
whom she listened with ever-increasing wonder. 

“ My love of flowers has been a great resource of hap- 
piness,” she said when some surprise was expressed that 
she had found time to study them in the midst of so 
many family cares. ‘‘ I have lived a good deal out of 
doors with my children in summer, and in autumn too. 
When my husband would be chopping in the woods, 


Tenting by the Roadside. 363 

even after snow had fallen, we would spend a day with 
him, building a fire on some flat rock and cooking out 
dinner there. It was always a great treat to the chil- 
dren, and I could not have lived confined within doors.’' 

After this visit Miss Bruce was interrogated on every 
hand in regard to what she had seen and heard, and very 
glad was she to be able to speak in terms of unqualified 
commendation. 

‘‘Well, it beats me," said her landlady. “ Them folks 
came here like gypsies and settled down in the highway, 
and everybody thought they needed looking after, for 
fear they’d steal or do something worse ; and now it 
seems as though, from all we can find out, that they’re 
decent, and able to take care of themselves without ask- 
ing favors of anybody. I wish we had a minister to go 
over there and talk with them. Men that have talked 
with Mr. Danton thinks he knows a great deal. There’s 
one thing certain, he can do most any kind of work, 
and do more of it than anybody else round here. There 
must be something wrong, or he wouldn’t be so poor. I 
aint going to ask you what you think about it, but it’s 
my opinion liquor’s been the trouble.’’ 

“ It is generally safe to credit liquor with most of the 
poverty and misfortune in the world,’’ was replied some- 
what evasively. 

“ That's so, Miss Bruce ; and, according to my mind, 
there aint no danger of charging too much to it." 

“ I think not. If all the misery and wretchedness 
caused by the use of intoxicating liquor could be known 
it would appall the strongest heart.’’ 

“ ‘ Appall the strongest heart,’ Miss Bruce. Why, I 
think it would move the very rocks and mountains. If 


364 'Tenting by the Roadside. 

I could find words to tell of all that’s happened in this 
town since I can remember through drinking liquor, 
you wouldn’t want to stay here another day ; and I 
don’t suppose there’s been near so bad things happened 
here as in some other places. I don’t know as ’twould 
do any good to write it all out and print it, but ’twould 
make a bigger story than any I ever read in the great 
story papers; and the worst part of it is kept out of 
sight, so nobody knows what ’tis but them that have to 
hear it. Now, when the truth is all told, I believe we 
shall find out that Mr. Danton has been a hard drinker, 
even if he hasn’t been an actual drunkard. I’m sorry 
for his wife. 1 guess she’s a nice woman.” 

Mrs. Danton was all that is implied by this descrip- 
tion, and far more. She was a happy woman, too, sing- 
ing at her work as she thought of all the blessings God 
had bestowed upon her. Her busy brain was constantly 
planning what she helped to execute, sure of ready as- 
sistance. Never lonely, although alone for many hours 
of the day, she often surprised her husband and children 
with some new device for their comfort. There were 
no lagging footsteps in the household. Their garden 
supplied them with an abundance of vegetables, while 
the fields afforded a succession of luscious berries. 

The boys contributed their full share to the general 
fund of labor. They made rapid improvement in school, 
and were considered as good boys as there were in town. 
People ceased to complain of the family as occupying 
land to which they had no title. They were free to re- 
main by the roadside so long as they pleased. 

But late in the autumn an old house owned by a man 
for whom Mr. Danton had worked was vacated, and he 


365 


Tentmg by the Roadside, 

was asked to occupy it, paying the rent by caring for a 
flock of sheep through the winter. This unexpected 
offer was gladly accepted ; and a few days after the new 
tenant went to the nearest railroad station and returned 
with a load of furniture, which had evidently seen service. 

Curiosity was again excited. It was known that Mr. 
Danton had mailed a letter at the village post-office and 
received a reply. Many called upon Mrs. Danton, more 
to see the arrangement of her house than to see herself. 
The report made was far from satisfactory, yet no one 
presumed to ask any direct questions. Later, however, 
visitors to this house were most agreeably surprised by 
the result. Canvassing the town for means to pay a 
minister’s salary, they were cordially welcomed and a 
generous contribution pledged. If so poor a man could 
give, others surely could ; and whenever this was told it 
stimulated to a like generosity. 

A minister was at once secured, a Sunday-school or- 
ganized, and weekly meetings established in different 
localities. Mr. Robbins, the clergyman, was enthusiastic 
in his work, inspiring others with something of his own 
spirit. 

But here, as elsewhere, opposition was encountered. 
In one corner of the town there was a small woolen mill 
employing a number of men whose families lived in the 
neighborhood. A store was opened there, with a read- 
ing-room, as the proprietor termed a rough apartment 
containing a few chairs and two long tables, on which 
were displayed some flashy papers. The room was well 
warmed and lighted, and everybody was invited to 
“ come in and be comfortable, with not a cent to pay.’' 
Of course there was a purpose in this. Guests were ex- 


366 Tenting by the Roadside. 

pected to pay the cost of lighting and warming in tha 
profits upon liquors they would drink, and for some rea- 
son the place attracted many boys and young men who 
might have been supposed to be above such associations 
A meeting held in the school-house of the district was 
disturbed by a delegation from this room, whose report 
was received with shouts of derision. 


CHAPTER II. 


“ That rum-hole has got to be broken up before any 
good can be done in this part of the town/^ said Mr. 
Danton to his pastor. I have seen enough of such 
things ; I can speak from experience, too. There’s 
nothing like liquor for keeping a man away from Christ. 
As long as a rum-shop can hold its ground in a com- 
munity you can’t expect a revival of religion. I’ve seen 
it tried.” 

“ But what can be done ? The town authorities li- 
censed the store for the sale of liquor.” 

‘‘ I know they did, and shame to them for doing it ! 
I’d sooner my boys would die than spend their evenings 
in such a place. I know the consequences of such 
evenings, and if I could have one man to stand by me 
I would go into that rum-hole and tell my own story, 
and, God helping me, I would save some others from 
what I have suffered.” 

I will stand by you anywhere,” replied the clergyman, 
whose eyes were dimmed with sympathetic tears. I 
know nothing of your past life more than has been told 
me of what it has been here ; but if you have a story to 
tell I shall be glad to hear it.” 

“ Thank you ; I have no desire to tell it except to 
benefit others ; but that dram-shop must be closed by 
some means.” 


(367) 


368 Tenting by the Roadside. 

Many said this oug it to be done. Such a place was 
a curse to the town, but no one was willing to assume 
any responsibility in the matter. 

Mr. Danton consulted again with Mr. Robbins, and 
at an appointed time they went to the store in company 
and asked permission to speak and pray there for a few 
minutes. Such a request, thus made, could not be re- 
fused, and one old man, who offered a chair to the min- 
ister, rapped for order. Without further delay Mr. 
Danton began to talk, and gradually all other sounds 
were hushed. 

As you know, I came to this town last spring, trav- 
eling on foot, with my wife and children. I don’t know 
why I didn’t stop before I got here, nor why I didn’t 
go further ; but it seemed as though that north road 
was the place for me, and there I pitched my tent. 
Since then you may have known how I lived ; but have 
you never wondered why a man should be traveling the 
country as I did ” 

‘‘ Guess we have,” responded a young man bolder 
than his companions. “ That is just what we want to 
know.” 

“ And that is just what I want to tell you,” said Mr. 
Danton, looking around upon his audience. Twelve 
years ago last spring I was married. I settled down on 
a good farm I had paid for with my own earnings. It 
was well stocked, I had a good team of horses, and I 
owed no man a dollar. I had as good a wife as a man 
can have, and I honestly intended to be a good husband. 
I loved my wife, and I was proud of her, too, for she 
was a better scholar than I was ; and I calculated she 
should have as good a home as I cou'd make for her 


369 


Tenting by the Roadside. 

If anybody had told me the time would ever come when 
I should neglect her I should have sworn it was a lie ; 
and if anybody had told me I should ever be traveling 
on foot with her and four little boys, pushing a hand- 
cart before me, and sleeping at night with the stars 
looking down on me, I should have been ready to kill 
the man who slandered me so.” 

By this time the attention of every one within sound 
of Jerome Dan ton’s voice was wholly absorbed in listen- 
ing to what he might say. Even the proprietor of the 
establishment forgot to calculate the profits of the even- 
ing, and leaned over his counter in eager expectancy 
There was a short silence, and then the speaker resumed 
his story. 

‘‘ For four years we prospered, although the habit of 
drinking an occasional glass of liquor grew upon me. 
My wife never thought of this before we were married, 
and when she began to think of it she didn’t believe I 
could ever be a drunkard. She begged of me to give 
up drinking, and I laughed at her for feeling bad about 
it, though sometimes I’d promise to be more temperate. 
Perhaps I should have kept such a promise if it hadn’t 
been that a new store was opened about a mile from my 
house, where you could buy all kinds of family supplies, 
and all kinds of liquors. The owner sold some things 
pretty cheap, and it wasn’t long before he had a good 
run of custom. He had plenty of company, too, winter 
evenings, and of course the men who sat by his fire pat- 
ronized his bar ; I got so I went there every night, and 
I did my share of treating the crowd. 

Sometimes I paid money down for the drinks, and 
sometimes I had them charged ; but once in six months 


370 Tenting by the Roadside. 

there was a settlement, when I would give a note for 
the amount of my indebtedness. 

‘‘ Of course I neglected my work, and my farm was 
running down. I sold stock to pay my taxes, and as 
for my family, I provided as meanly for them as I could 
while they could get so much of their living from the 
farm. They could eat a good deal that I couldn’t sell, 
and my wife had a faculty of making the best of things. 
The last years she didn’t very often say anything to me 
to try to have me do better. She knew ’twould be of 
no use. 

‘‘Well, finally, I had to let my farm go, and every- 
thing else we had any claim on, except the furniture ; 
that used to belong to my wife’s mother. We had a 
little money left after my debts were paid, and I gave 
half of that to my wife. That was what we lived on 
when we were traveling. We moved into a miserable 
house, and I worked enough to pay for my liquor and 
keep my family from starving. I went to the store the 
same as I had for so long, and my money would buy as 
many drams as ever ; but when it was gone my company 
wasn’t wanted any longer. 

‘‘ I used to hate myself for being such a brute, but 
still I kept on. I was ashamed to go home to my fam- 
ily, but they never found fault with me, and the worst 
time I ever saw I never struck one of them a blow when 
I was in liquor; but I left them to grow poorer and 
poorer. 

“ I went to the store one evening last April with only 
enough in my pocket to pay for one drink, and that I 
was saving till the last minute, when a young man came 
in and called for three glasses, which he drank one aftei 


Tenting by the Roadside. 371 

another. He seemed half-crazed, but he was one whc 
wouldn’t bear being interfered with. He stood there in 
the middle of the room looking round. The door was 
opened and his old mother came in, and, kneeling down 
on that dirty floor, threw her arms around his knees and 
cried as though her heart would break. When she 
could speak she begged him to go home with her, and 
there wasn’t a man there but what pitied her. He was 
all she had. We almost held our breaths to hear what 
he would say, as she looked up into his face so pitifully. 
What do you think that boy did } What would any of 
you do if your mother should come in here, and on her 
knees beg you to come home with her and give up 
drinking liquor ? Perhaps some of you are the sons of 
widowed mothers.” 

By this time the excitement of the listeners was in- 
tense, and although no response was made to these 
questions, tearful eyes attested to their power. 

“ Perhaps some mother begged her boy not to come 
here to-night ; and it may be she is praying this very 
minute that he may come home to her sober. Mothers 
are very anxious for their boys. You will never know 
how anxious until you see what I saw — a mother kneel- 
ing at the feet of her son, when he ought to kneel to 
her. I will tell you what that boy did. He wrenched 
himself away from her clasping arms and kicked her 
over, so that she fell against the stove, cutting a terrible 
gash on the side of her head. ‘ You have killed your 
mother I You have killed your mother ! ’ cried half a 
dozen voices. 

“ ‘ Killed my mother ! * he exclaimed. ‘ Killed my 
mother ! It was the fiery liquor killed her, and may 


372 Tenting by the Roadside. 

God strike me dead if I ever taste another drop of the 
awful stuff.’ He said this standing over his mother 
Then he stooped down, caught her up in his arms, and 
rushed through the open door. She was a little woman, 
while he was large and strong, so he could easily carry 
her. ‘ Somebody ought to look after that boy. If he 
has killed his mother he deserves hanging,’ said the 
rum-seller. ‘ Wonder what the man who sold him the 
liquor deserves,’ I responded. ‘ He wouldn’t have been 
what he is now if it wasn’t for this accursed place. It 
has ruined a good many.’ ^ Perhaps you think it has 
ruined you,’ he retorted with a sneer. ^ I know it has,’ 
I answered. ‘ I know it has ; but not another drop of 
liquor will ever go down my throat.’ And I started for 
the door. Six others followed me, making the same 
promise. 

“ I went home to my wife and told her what had hap- 
pened ; but we couldn’t stop to rejoice long over my 
pledge before we started for Mrs. Gilmore’s. It wasn’t 
a great ways, and when we got there George met us at 
the door, saying over and over : ‘ Mother’s alive, and 
she has forgiven me.’ She had been stunned at first, 
but the bleeding and the night air brought her to her 
senses, though she didn’t remember all that had hap- 
pened till after George laid her down on the lounge in 
her own sitting-room. My wife and I stayed there half 
the night, and talked and prayed, and were glad and 
sorry all together. 

Two weeks from then I made up my mind I could 
start anew easier in some other place, and as all the 
money we had was what my wife had saved of what I 
gave her, there wasn’t any way for us but to walk. My 


373 


Tenting by the Roadside. 

wife and children were used to living outdoors a good 
deal, or they never could have done as they did. I 
helped them all I could, and now I should be glad to 
help any of you. My story is told/’ 

As he thus said Mr. .Danton kneeled upon the floor, 
his pastor kneeling beside him and praying for a bless- 
ing upon the words which had been spoken. When the 
prayer was ended but few in either room were standing. 
The owner of the store was upon his knees, sobbing au- 
dibly. He had a praying mother, whose warnings and 
entreaties he now remembered. 

The next day the store was closed. Without the 
profits of the liquor-selling it could not be supported. 
It was but a small place, yet who can tell the misery 
which might have been there wrought } 

Not long after, in a religious meeting where the Spirit 
of the Lord seemed moving upon all hearts, an old man 
arose and, leaning heavily upon his cane, said : I want 
you all to thank God that when our highways was laid 
out they was made four rods wide, so there was room 
for Brother Danton to pitch his tent beside the road. 
I’ve thought sometimes there was a good deal of land 
wasted, but we’ve got double for it all. I never ex- 
pected to see such a day as this. It’s wonderful. But 
the Lord reigns, and blessed be the name of the Lord ! ” 


SCRAPS AND HIS COMPANION. 






SCRAPS AND HIS COMPANION. 


It was a day to be remembered for the intense cold 
and pitiless wind which made itself felt in every street 
and alley of the great city. 

Business men, so disguised with wrappings they could 
hardly be recognized, walked rapidly. Few ladies were 
abroad, even in close carriages. Poor women, whom 
necessity compelled to go out from such miserable shel- 
ter as they could afford, shivered and faltered as a fierce 
gust swept by, threatening to deprive them of scanty 
cloaks or tattered shawls which were their only pro- 
tection. 

Children hastened from school without stopping to ex- 
amine the shop-windows or consider chances of coasting 
and skating. Boys pulled their caps well down over 
their ears and wound their tippets tightly about their 
necks, while girls enveloped their heads in shawls and 
made the most of muffs and mittens. 

Even the street gamins, accustomed to brave all 
weathers in their struggle for existence, and ever on the 
alert to snatch some advantage from the misfortunes or 
generosity of others, retired to sheltered nooks, or hud- 
dled together over the gratings, through which some 
warmth escaped from fires in the basements of adjacent 

C377) 


378 Scraps and His Companion. 

buildings. Policemen were merciful that day, so that 
fewer orders to move were given. 

Starvin’s ’most as bad as freezin’,” muttered one of 
a group who had been fortunate in their choice of 
grates, emphasizing the assertion with terrible oaths. 
“ Pm off on a scout for fillin’.” 

“ Go it, Scraps, and don’t forget your friends,” replied 
another. I’m too well-off to move till I’m drove. I 
can’t ; but if you have a crust too many I’ll take it.” 

Number one’s enough for me such a day as this. 
Wish I was rich, and I’d feed you all ; but I’ve met 
with heavy losses.” And before any response could be 
made to this attempt at pleasantry, Scraps had darted 
away, intent upon obtaining food and drink. 

He prided himself upon his honesty, repelling indig- 
nantly every suspicion that he would commit a theft, 
and yet his companions wondered at his strange good- 
fortune. He had been watched for hours when the 
officer knew he neither begged nor worked, while at the 
same time he found means to satisfy his hunger. If a 
bundle was dropped, he hastened to return it to its 
owner, notwithstanding he had himself jostled it to the 
ground. If money was lost he was not so particular, 
and it was his especial delight to see some well-dressed 
lad fall upon the pavement or stumble at a crossing. 
He knew what confectioners were most patronized by 
those who had plenty of pocket-money, and many a 
penny had fallen to his share in a mysterious manner. 

‘‘Wonder if that swell cove ’ll be out to-day.?” he 
soliloquized between his spasmodic struggles to make 
some headway against opposing forces. “ Hope he’ll 
drop another quarter and I’ll find it. He haint no busi* 


379 


Scraps and His Companion. 

ness with so much when I haint got nothin*. Ought to 
go shares with me. Why can’t he ” And, with this 
question still in mind, Scraps found himself at his favor- 
ite post of observation. 

Despite the cold, circumstances were propitious. The 
very lad he hoped to see was entering the saloon, while 
a servant, restraining the impatience of a pair of spir- 
ited horses, waited the pleasure of his young master. 
The horses grew so restive that, as the latter appeared, 
he saw the necessity of the case, and, after fumbling at 
his pockets for a moment, threw down the piece of silver 
he found it inconvenient to return to his purse. 

Take it, and much good may it do you,” he mut- 
tered, as he saw it snatched away almost before it had 
touched the pavement. But it was all the same to 
Scraps as if it had been bestowed most graciously. 

A quarter ; and I’ll have a square meaf, with some- 
thing to warm me up besides. Them boxes, too, in the 
corner has got room behind right over the grate, and 
there won’t nobody move things to-day. Wonder if I’ll 
find the fat woman round 1 If I do I’m in double luck. 
She’ll want her bottle filled, and I’m the cove that can 
buy whisky or gin for meself or another.” 

He crept stealthily around to the rear of the building, 
where he peered through a narrow window, and, seeing 
the face he sought, ventured to rap for admittance. 

“ What brings ye again ” asked the woman, looking 
at him curiously. “ What is ’t ye want } ” 

‘‘ Victuals ; and I’ve the money to pay. I’m hungry, 
orful.” 

‘‘ Fa’th, and ye look it, an’ enough here for a score 
like ye that’ll go to the pigs ; an’ ye may have yer fill, 


380 Scraps and His Companion. 

if ye*]l take the jug for me. Here’s the money, an 
mind ye do it on the sly, an’ be quick, ’fore ony one 
cooms.” 

The boy did not need this caution. He was too anx-^ 
ious for his dinner to make any delay, and knew too 
well the penalty of being found there to run a risk which 
could be avoided. He returned in the shortest possible 
time to find a heaped-up tray of food, from which he 
was allowed to select at his pleasure ; and as he was by 
no means fastidious, he dined sumptuously. Then, with 
the precious quarter still in his possession, he ensconced 
himself behind the boxes already noticed, where he slept 
soundly until some time in the night, when he awoke 
to congratulate himself upon his comfortable quarters. 
He was inclined to sleep again, but, as he desired time 
for reflection, he roused himself by rubbing his eyes 
vigorously and pushing back his tangled hair. 

According to the best of his knowledge, he was about 
twelve years of age, without father or mother, brother 
or sister. He could remember of having lived with an 
old woman who told him that, when she was gone, he 
would be obliged to fight his own way in the world — a 
fact which he had found sadly true. 

He was beginning to feel a sense of injustice in the 
distribution of this world’s goods, and wondered, as 
have so many others, why one should be rich and an- 
other poor. He had never been taught to study or 
work, yet he had managed in some way to learn the 
alphabet, and had a natural aptitude for general useful- 
ness. He might sell papers, but the business was so 
overdone that new recruits were unwelcome. 

He had reached this point when he heard footsteps 


Scraps and His Companion, 381 

approaching, and knew that he must bid good-bye to the 
warmth and shelter he had so long enjoyed. Leaping 
from his grated bed, he was soon lost to sight in the 
shadow of the surrounding buildings; yet all through 
the day he puzzled his head with vain endeavors to 
solve the mysteries of fortune. When his money was 
gone he forgot to philosophize, and looked about sharply 
for the means of subsistence, and upon two occasions 
put himself in the way of receiving help from the lad 
who, by some strange reasoning, he came to regard as 
one who had deprived him of a part of his birthright. 
He learned the name of this fortunate boy, and often 
stood before a large, elegant mansion, wishing it was his 
home, and he was Helmer Bryant instead of Scraps. 
He tried to imagine what the interior of this house was 
like, and once, when many guests were entering, he 
caught a glimpse of the hall, with its wide staircase, 
down which were passing richly-dressed ladies, smiling 
as sweetly as though there was no outside world where 
hunger and want held sway. 

It chanced that, after two years of waiting and watch- 
ing, Scraps was able to render Helmer Bryant an im- 
portant service, for which he received a generous gift of 
clothing and money. This brought the two more closely 
together, although but one recognized the common 
ground upon which they were standing. 

There were many to wish the son of wealth a happy 
and prosperous career ; there were none to care for the 
homeless, friendless waif. A doting mother lavished 
upon one the entire love of her widowed heart, while 
the world seemed leagued against the other. Riches 
already in possession, and the prospective heir of mil- 


382 Scraps and His Companion, 

lions ; while over against this destiny was present des- 
titution with a hopeless future. 

Scraps waited another two years, when, finding that 
luck continued against him, he started on a tramp, and, 
while passing through a town where was a popular 
school for boys, he again saw Helmer Bryant surveying 
the surrounding scene with haughty indifference. The 
ragged tramp was nothing to the aristocratic student, 
yet the student was much to his unfortunate observer. 
He was the representative of the favored class. He was 
even more than this : he was the very personification of 
affluent ease. Scraps managed to remain in town for a 
few days, hoping to receive some assistance, but, being 
disappointed in these hopes, was forced to move on. 

In winter he returned to the city, where he could 
make the most of his resources and secure the sem- 
blance of a home. Meanwhile, his appetite for alcoholic 
drinks developed and increased until it became the rul- 
ing passion of his life. He no longer boasted of his 
honesty. Money for liquor must be had by some means, 
and at twenty-one he was a confirmed drunkard. 

Still, he kept up his knowledge of Helmer Bryant ; 
knew when the latter was in college, and when a grand 
party was given to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of 
this scion of a proud and wealthy family. The house 
was ablaze with light. Beautiful women and noble- 
looking men thronged the apartments, through which 
floated strains of music and the perfume of flowers. 

Guess I’m twenty-one, and nobody don’t do nothing 
for me,” muttered the vagrant. ’Taint fair, and ” 

Here his complaints were arrested by the gleaming of 
silver which had fallen from a careless hand, and, seiz- 


Scraps and His Companion. 383 

ing it, he hastened to a drinking den, where he ex 
changed it for a draught so potent as to render him ob- 
livious to all considerations of injustice. 

A few weeks later he saw the doors of the Bryant 
mansion open to admit two men who carried between 
them an apparently lifeless body taken from a carriage 
which was driven rapidly away. It was in the dead of 
night, but from his hiding-place he heard the remark : 

‘‘ That young fellow better keep an eye to windward 
or he’ll lose the old man’s money. It won’t take for- 
ever to run through his own and his mother’s property, 
the way he goes on. The old man will cut him off with 
a shilling, if he gets to be a common drunkard.” 

“ He’s that now, only he drinks choice wines and 
pays for them. If he was a poor woman’s son he’d been 
sent up before this ; and he may, as it is, before he 
dies.” 

Scraps understood what was implied by being sent 
up.” He, too, had avoided this punishment. The 
swell cove and himself were becoming more alike. 
They both drank liquor, and both were sometimes in- 
toxicated. He wished he could once drink a full sup- 
ply of wine, so that he could intelligently compare 
drunkenness in high life with drunkenness in low life. 

His associations were such that he knew no more of 
Helmer Bryant, except by an occasional glimpse from 
time to time, until he saw Mrs. Bryant and her son 
standing on the deck of an outward-bound steamer, and 
a bystander said they were to spend the next two years 
in Europe. 

Strange as it may seem, the ragged, wretched fellow 
waved a farewell with his tattered hat, feeling that a 


384 Scraps and His Companion, 

friend was going from him. His last chance for any 
good-fortune had vanished. He became more reckless 
and drank more deeply ; tramped more and worked 
less. He was a thoroughly besotted drunkard, finding 
his only sober recreation in watching the house, every 
window and cornice of which was familiar to him. He 
was looking forward anxiously to the return of its in- 
mates, when an auctioneer’s flag, conspicuously dis- 
played, gave notice that it was to change owners. Min- 
gling with the motley crowd gathered to see and hear 
what might transpire, he learned that Mrs. Bryant was 
dead and her son still in Europe, where he had con- 
tracted heavy debts, for the payment of which his mo- 
ther’s estate was to be sacrificed. 

‘‘ He has gone down fast, and nobody can calculate 
where hd will land,” said an elderly man. He bears 
an honored name, but he has disgraced it, and the 
chances are that he will die an outcast from society. 
Dissipation makes strange changes in our American 
families, where property is not entailed. A millionaire 
to-day, and the inmate of a poor-house or a prison ten 
years from to-day. Helmer Bryant will never spend the 
old man’s money, as he has his own and his mother’s.” 

“ Think he’ll come back.?” asked another. 

“ I think he will. He will run short of funds and 
come back for a supply. It takes money to keep up the 
style of living he has adopted.” 

This was true, as the young man found to his cost, 
and, taking passage for his native land, wondered 
vaguely what welcome he should receive Irom the rela- 
tive to whom he persuaded himself he had a right to 
look for substantial assistance. Upon reaching his des 


Scraps and His Companion, 385 

tination he took rooms at a fashionable hotel, and called 
upon his friends ; but he found it exceedingly difficult 
to ask for a loan of money, which all knew he had no 
means of returning. 

‘‘ I will give you a chance to help me in my business, 
and pay you a fair salary — enough to meet all reason- 
able expenses and allow you to save something, if you 
are economical,” responded the old gentleman to whom 
he made application. ‘‘You are twenty-six years old 
and never earned a dollar. You have spent two for- 
tunes, and if you would have another you must earn it ; 
you can’t look to me for the third. Go to work, and 
show yourself a man.” 

Necessity knows no choice. The business proposed 
was undertaken ; but, through want of application, an 
utter failure was the only result. He was .dismissed 
from this position, and established in another where 
there would be less of responsibility; yet here the serv- 
ices he performed were merely nominal. 

His dissipated habits clung to him. He laid aside 
some of his fine manners, grew careless of his dress and 
personal appearance, and contented himself with cheap 
lodgings. He was shunned by his former associates ; 
and at last, when the estate he had once regarded as his 
own, subject only to the life use of another, was devised, 
he found himself entitled to no more than a moderate 
allowance from the income of property in the hands of 
trustees. 

Aint rich after all,” mumbled Scraps, who seemed 
to know almost by instinct when any change occurred 
to affect the fortunes of Helmer Bryant. 

Gradually the latter withdrew from familiar scenes 


386 "Scraps and His Companion. 

appearing only to claim his quarterly dues, and then 
betaking himself to some place where he could drink 
and drown all memory of other days. He was often 
arrested for drunkenness, and as often dismissed with a 
reprimand, when, having committed an aggravated as- 
sault, he was held for trial. Chained to another pris- 
oner, he moved sullenly away with downcast eyes and 
averted face, while an expression of savage satisfaction 
rested upon the features of his companion. This com- 
panion was Scraps, who felt that justice long delayed 
was now meted out impartially. 

In the city papers appeared an item referring to the 
sad spectacle thus afforded, and commenting upon the 
terrible downfall of one whose early life had promised 
so much. Two who had commenced their career as 
far removed from each other as is luxurious affluence 
from squalid poverty, or elegant culture from brutish 
ignorance, had met upon the same level, brought there 
by the same causes, and finally adjudged to the same 
punishment. 

To the highest and the lowest, to the richest and the 
poorest, strong drink is an enemy, having regard to 
neither rank, position, nor expectations. 


4 



5 '^ 


i 








o» ■ 





^r:r 





«• 1 







X. 




V 






.*3 



A> 


*i 


't 


- 

f *. h 



s 


rse-: 


% 


.^ •* rl I j 






